


Unbreak My Heart

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Distrust, Jealousy, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, attempted murder of more than one person, john and mary engaged, sherlock alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two years since Sherlock jumped, and now he's back and ready to pick up where he left off...but things have changed. A sequel to Never Tear Us Apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

In an Eastern block country, in a damp dirty cellar, a hulking thug of a torturer stormed out of the room, the words his prisoner had spoken ringing in still in his ears.

Sitting in the shadow out of the way of the torturer’s work was a soldier. Until now he had been quiet, just asking occasionally for clarification of the prisoner’s words, now he moved forwards and leaning down pulled the chained man’s head up by his hair.

“There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” With a smile Mycroft Holmes released the prisoner’s hair and straightened up. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

xXx

“What do you mean he’s moved on?”

Freshly showered, shaved and dressed once more in his customary suit and crisp white shirt, Sherlock paused in his observation of his reflection and shifted his gaze over his right shoulder to glare at his brother.

“Exactly what I said, John Watson has moved out of Baker Street and moved on with his life.” Mycroft’s face twisted as if uncomfortable with the subject matter.

“You promised…”

“I know Sherlock, I promised to look after him and make sure no harm came to him – unfortunately as I couldn’t appraise him of the facts he believed me to be responsible….”

“But you do know where he is? He is alive?”

Mycroft looked surprised, then peered closer at his brother’s reflection and his face settled into an expression of understanding.

“Ah, you thought….” He cleared his throat. “I believe John voluntarily handed his service weapon to your Detective Inspector friend, who – rather than arrest him for having an unlicensed weapon – passed it to me.”

Stepping over to his desk he pulled open a draw and lifting the Browning out handed it to his brother.

“Where is he?” Sherlock’s voice croaked, tight with emotion as he took the gun.

“Islington, he has a house there, and works in a local surgery – I believe the senior partner is considering offering him a partnership in the practice….”

“Give me his address.”

“Ah, now that might not be the best idea right at this moment,” Mycroft prevaricated. “Maybe you should let Lestrade know you are alive?  And Mrs Hudson? Surely it would be a kindness to tell her?”

Sherlock scowled and said nothing.

“And it would be good manners to let Miss Hooper know that you are back from the dead, so that she can stop worrying that she might let the cat out of the bag so to speak.”

“I want….I need to see John.” Sherlock’s scowl became an expression of suspicion. “What it is that you don’t want me to know?”

Under his brother’s sharp gaze Mycroft grew uncomfortable – it wasn’t something that happened often to him, but he could appreciate how Sherlock’s ‘victims’ felt when faced with that icy gaze.

The silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and claustrophobic until, with a resigned sigh, Mycroft lowered himself into his chair, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him.

“For the past year he has been living with a woman, a Miss Mary Morstan….” Seeing the blood drain from his brother’s already pale face Mycroft waved him to a chair, waiting until he was seated before continuing. “I understand from what he has told Lestrade that it started as companionship, but over time it has evolved.”

“Evolved how?”

“I understand they are planning to marry next summer.”

Mycroft watched his brother’s reaction. The younger man went absolutely still, and he closed his eyes.

“Then I’ve lost him.” He whispered.

“He believed he had lost you.”

xXx

In the end Sherlock paid a short visit to Scotland Yard (the underground car park, where he almost made Lestrade choke on his cigarette), another to Bart’s morgue to relieve Molly of her fears of betraying him, and a slightly longer visit to 221B Baker Street where after the initial shock had subsided Mrs Hudson took him to task for his deception and nearly hugged him to death in relief that he wasn’t truly dead.

As she poured him another cup of tea, Martha Hudson took in the changes wrought by Sherlock’s time away, then broached the question that had been on the tip of her tongue almost from the moment he walked through her door.

“Have you told John?”

Sherlock flicked a glance at her then glanced away.

“Mycroft withheld his address until I had been to see you, he promised to text the address to me once I leave here.”

Mrs Hudson was outraged.

“That man! He may be your brother, but he has no right to dictate to you when you can see your….”

She stopped suddenly, as if remembering something. Sherlock looked up at her.

“It’s alright Mrs Hudson, I know about this Mary Morstan he’s living with.”

“Oh.” Her thin hand stole across the table to take hold of his, giving it a squeeze.

“I must see him even if he doesn’t forgive me for what I did, I need to tell him I’m sorry.” Sherlock swallowed past the tightening in his throat. “But I shan’t wish him happiness in his new life, because after all I’ve done to him I find I can’t lie to him anymore.”

“Mary’s a nice girl….”

“And John was mine.” Suddenly all the hurt and anger that Sherlock had forced down since he had heard about his once-partner’s new life erupted, and the tea cup he held in his hand shattered as he slammed it down on to the table.

“Sherlock!”  Snatching up his hand Mrs Hudson checked Sherlock’s palm to make sure he hadn’t cut himself, then set about clearing away the broken china.

“I’m sorry.” As fast as it had come Sherlock’s anger went, leaving him sitting looking deflated and lost.

“That’s alright dear I’ll add it to your rent.” Mrs Hudson looked at him expectantly. “You will be moving back in, won’t you?”

At last a weak smile graced his thin pale features.

“If you’ll have me back.”

xXx

Sherlock didn’t need to wait for his brother’s text. Mrs Hudson handed him a slip of paper with John’s new address on it.

As the taxi pulled up at the end of the street Sherlock experienced an unfamiliar feeling of butterflies, and his heart jumped into his throat as he slowly walked through the dark November evening towards the modest house that John now called home.

The sound of the doorbell had barely died away when the door was wrenched open.  On the threshold stood a slender woman, short, with short blond hair and a face that was pretty in an unusual way.

“You….You’re….” she stammered seeing Sherlock standing on the doorstep.

“Yes, and you must be….” He didn’t get the chance to finish as he was hauled in through the doorway and into the hall by the lapels of his Belstaff, and a mobile thrust into his hand.

“Read that!” Mary ordered him as she pulled on her coat.

Sherlock looked down at the message open on the screen.

**_‘Save souls now! John or James Watson?’_ **

 “I think it’s a skip code,” Mary said as she moved up close to read it with him. “First word, then every third  I think.”

“ ** _Save John Watson_** – Who sent you this?”

There was a second text screen open too and Sherlock read on.

**_‘Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?’_ **

“I don’t recognise the number, but that’s hardly important now is it?  We have to find John!” Snatching the phone back Mary hustled the consulting detective out of the door and into her car.

Without a second thought Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat, his brain working a mile a minute trying to assimilate the data.

Mary started the engine.

“Where to?”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock looked at her.

“You’re the bloody genius here – where to?” Without waiting for his response she pulled away from the curb with a screech of tyres on tarmac.

“Saint James the Less is a church in Pimlico, about sixteen minutes away if the traffic doesn’t hold us up.”

“I know a shortcut.” Already Mary was pulling into narrow backstreets and little roads covered with speed bumps.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, too concerned about John to complain every time the little car hit a bump at speed, throwing him upwards and bumping his head against the roof of the car.

Mary’s phone beeped with another incoming text. She reached into her pocket and threw the phone at her passenger. Sherlock opened the new text.

**_‘You’re getting warmer Mr Holmes. You have about ten minutes’_ **

“They know I’m with you.”  Watching as the streetlights threw strange shadows on Mary’s face as she concentrated on the road Sherlock frowned. “Either they were watching your house, or they know I’ve returned and guessed I’d come to your house.”

“I don’t care, I just want John back safe!”

“Then we both want the same thing.”

A knot of stationary traffic delayed their journey, but just as Sherlock was preparing to get out of the car another text came through.

**_‘Better hurry, things are hotting up here...’_ **

“Oh for God’s sake…” he reached once more for the door handle as Mary floored the accelerator, screeching through an impossible gap in the traffic and speeding them once more on their way.

“That’s it, just up there.” Sherlock pointed to a church at the end of the road with one hand while opening yet another message with the other.

**_‘What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!’_ **

“What does it mean?” Mary screeched as the message was read out to her. “What have they done?”

But Sherlock didn’t respond. The car skidded to a halt and he was out and running before the engine dies, pushing through the crowd towards the newly lit bonfire in the middle of the church green.

“Move, move, move!” He yelled at adults and children alike as a scream rent the air.

From inside the piled and burning wood came a pained call for help, and the child that had screamed was now in hysterics.

“John! John!” Frantically Sherlock pushed and pulled at the burning wood.

Mary ran up beside him.

“John! Where are you?”

“Call an ambulance” Sherlock ordered as he finally uncovered enough of John’s arm to get a grip on him. “John, hold on, I’m going to pull you free.”

With a strength born of desperation he pulled, trying to protect John’s head as the pile flaming planks and sticks imploded.

Once free of the inferno Sherlock and Mary knelt on either side of the injured man. Leaning over his friend Sherlock gently patted John’s face.

“John? John.”

John’s eyelids fluttered.

“Hey, John.” The younger man said softly.

This time the eyes flashed open, and stared upwards into his face before rolling back into his head.

As the doctor lost consciousness one word slipped from his lips……

“Sherlock!”


	2. Don't Leave Me In All This Pain

Sherlock watched through the window of the side-ward door as Mary sat by John’s bed, clasping his hand, leaning close as she talked to him.

Lying on crisp starched sheets John had glanced once towards the door then turned away, confused by what he saw. He listened to Mary explaining that Sherlock had just turned up on their doorstep, but that neither had had the time to do more than read the texts and set out to find him.

She continued to talk, but much of what Mary was saying went over his head, and a single thought chased around his brain – ‘Sherlock’s alive, Sherlock’s alive’ – while his heart was slowly turning to stone as with each passing second he realised that for more than two long years he had been grieving for a man who wasn’t dead, who had deliberately lied to him and left him.

A hand brushing gently at his cheek snapped him out of his stupor, and he looked up into Mary’s grey-green eyes, seeing the confusion in her expression but feeling utterly unable to say or do anything.

“Will you see him?” She asked again, smiling gently down at her fiancé.

John shook his head, unwilling rather than unable to speak, not really trusting his voice.

“Okay,” Mary gave his hand a squeeze. “That’s okay; I’ll tell his Nibbs that he’ll have to come back another time.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t even a hoarse whisper; it was more simply a movement of lips – lifeless and without warmth.

With a sympathetic smile Mary squeezed his hand once more and turned towards the door.

Through the glass Sherlock saw the smile drop from her face, to be replaced with a hard, humourless expression.

Mary didn’t give him a chance to say anything. She grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him down the ward and out into the stairwell.

Pushing him against the wall she stood close, invading his personal space and leaning into his face as she snarled up at him.

“Do you know what you did to him? Do you?” she spat viciously. “Do you even care?”

“I….”

“No. You don’t get to talk here Mr Smart-arse Bloody Holmes! You listen, and then you go away and leave him in peace.” Every word was punctuated by her finger poking Sherlock’s chest. “He was lost, a broken man when you died.  I would never have believed it was possible to be truly heartbroken – but he was.  He loved you, did you know that?”

When he briefly nodded his head Mary continued.

“He told me about your relationship, he was convinced his own life was over when you jumped.” She sneered. “Oh I know he doesn’t love me the way he loved you, but I can make him happy, and I will make sure that you don’t get your claws into him again.”

It was as if her words had suddenly woken the old Sherlock, a man buried deep within the shell that stood there being castigated by this slip of a woman. His eyes took in everything about her, reading her in a way that only he could……

_Clever - Secret Tattoo - Part time nurse  - Short sighted - only child -  Romantic - Bakes Own Bread - Disillusioned - Linguist – Guardian-  Cat Lover - Lib Dem - Size 12 - Appendix scar – Liar……._

“Are you threatening me Miss Morstan?”

“If that’s what it takes to ensure my happiness and his, then yes – that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that….” Suddenly he sounded like the Sherlock Sally Donovan had always called Freak; the one John had always referred to as a git. “You are playing way out of your league.”

With a cold glance that travelled from his head to the pointed toes of his highly polished shoes and back again, Mary stepped away and backed towards the stairwell door.

“You don’t frighten me Mr Holmes.” She sneered. “I thank you for helping me save John, and for that I’m willing to give you a chance to get back out of his life. Last warning Sherlock. Leave. Him. Alone.”

xXx

Released from hospital after a night under observation, John stared blindly out of the car windscreen as Mary drove them home.

After thanking her for bringing him clean clothes and for letting the surgery know that he would be off for the rest of the week he had fallen silent, withdrawn within his mind, trying to sort through his tangled, tortured thoughts.

Wisely Mary refrained from telling him of her conversation with Sherlock, just glancing his way occasionally as she expertly manoeuvred through the London traffic.  Once at home she led the way in, carrying his bag as the palms both of John’s hands were singed and bandaged, and watching as he wandered straight up to the bedroom and closed the door behind him.  He made it clear he wanted to be alone. Mary quietly seethed as she set about making lunch for them both.

xXx                                                                                                                                                                                        

Less than ten miles away Sherlock sat in the darkened living room of 221B, the curtains had been closed and so the only source of light being the fire that Mrs Hudson had taken the liberty of lighting when she visited earlier to air the room.

In his hand was a photograph of John, one that Mrs Hudson had taken at their Christmas party when the doctor thought he was unobserved.  There was a look in his eyes that, had Sherlock turned at that moment, would have told him everything he had waited to learn about John’s true feelings – a lost, longing look that their landlady had seen and recognised.  She had given Sherlock this photograph shortly before things went so horribly wrong, and against his brother’s advice he had carried it with him most of the time that he was away – sometimes risking capture to retrieve it before moving on – the knowledge that his John was safe back in London driving him onwards to finish what Moriarty had started.

The tattered, fragile piece of paper quivered slightly as a tremor rattled through the younger man. He drew in a sharp breath, the fingers of his other hand clenching tightly on the arm of his chair before reaching for his mobile.

“Lestrade, you are aware that my name’s been cleared so I’m free to work with you again?” Sherlock didn’t even give the detective the chance to answer his phone properly, which caused an unfortunate reaction.

Sally Donovan had picked up her boss’s phone from where he had left it on the front seat of his car and now, hearing a dead man talking, she screamed and dropped the mobile onto the pavement, smashing it and causing a screech of feedback in Sherlock’s ear.

He dropped his own phone into his lap, swearing under his breath fluently in Russian, and holding the side of his head. 

Picking up the iPhone he dialled the Detective inspector once more, but the call couldn’t connect and his only answer was a metallic voice asking him to try again.

xXx                                                                                                                                                                                        

“Donovan, what the hell…..?”

“It was…..it was him…..” Sally was shaking, her normally warm caramel skin tones paling to a dusty ash grey.

“What have you done to my phone?” distracted by the mess of smashed plastic and glass on the crime-scene floor, Lestrade missed the horrified expression on his sergeant’s face. “Bloody hell Sally, you realise I’ll have to report this breakage and they’ll probably stop it out of my salary?”

When he received no answer he finally looked up into her face and read there the obvious distress. With a vague wave of his hand he sent the officers that had come running at the sound of Sally’s scream back to their tasks, then turned and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?”

“It was him…..it was Sherlock!”

Greg looked once more at the wreckage of his phone.

“What did he want?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Sally turned on him, fear and shock giving way to cold fury.

“You _knew_? You knew he was alive?” She gasped. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday.”  The DI held his hands up placatingly. “He just turned up Sal, I swear it was the first I knew!”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?  To tell me?  What about Philip, does he know?”

“Anderson believed he never died in the first place – seems like he was smarter than the rest of us.” Greg tried to laugh it off, but Sally was having none of it.

“Don’t!  After all the piss taking he took – have you even _told_ him yet?”  The Detective Sergeant seethed, shoving at her superior officer’s chest to accentuate every word. “We’re your team, we deserve better treatment that this.”

“That’s enough Sergeant Donovan.” Lestrade stepped back and resumed the persona of Officer In Charge. “You’re a good officer, better than most, but there’s only so much I’ll let you get away with.” His eyes and voice softened as he looked at her shocked face. “Sally, what should I have done eh? Told you that I’d seen Sherlock?  That he was alive and he’d ambushed me in the car park? You wouldn’t have believed me, let’s face it I even doubted myself.”

“But the car park has CCTV….”

“Yeah.” Greg choked back a laugh. “First thing this morning I went in to the ops room to check the footage – nothing.  Not even a shadow out of place.”

“How?” Sally’s eyes flickered across Greg’s face, as if hoping to read the answer there.

Greg shrugged.

“That man has spent most of his adult life avoiding his brother’s surveillance – Scotland Yard’s CCTV would have been child’s play for him.”

xXx

Several miles away in his Whitehall office Mycroft Holmes looked down at the manila file on his desk and sighed.

Even with his highly trained staff he couldn’t get any real information on the rumoured terrorist plot, every lead was a dead end, and every person they had pulled in had proved to be mere minnows in the shark’s pool – and minnows rarely had any information of relevance.

Drumming his fingers on the small sheaf of papers he considered his options. Whether or not to waste more time hoping his operatives could finally uncover the ring-leader, or should he just hand it all over to his brother, to persuade him to take the case to take his mind off Doctor John Watson.

A frown creased his high, lightly freckled forehead as he turned to his computer screen and replayed the tape from the hospital stairwell.  He had been monitoring it purely because John had been admitted as a patient – some old habits die hard – yet he was somewhat shocked to see his brother being dragged through the door and berated by the slip of a woman currently engaged to the good doctor.

It was easy to read his brother’s lips. _‘Are you threatening me Miss Morstan?’_

It would appear that was exactly what she was doing, and her body language was different, very different, to the way she had usually appeared. No longer the demure part time nurse that worked at the practice, she was more tigress protecting her cubs, tense and ready to strike.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. He had seen Mary Morstan mostly from a distance, but what he had seen had made very little impression on him – now he found himself reaching for his intercom.

“Anthea, I have a job for you.”

xXx

“It’s not like you not to want to eat.” Mary smiled across the dining table. “Are your hands still hurting?”

John shook his head.

“No, I just…well….” He looked at her and sighed loudly. “I’m sorry, I think it’s just the shock kicking in.”

“I’m not surprised, finding yourself trapped in a bonfire like a hibernating hedgehog…”

“No, it’s not that.” Putting his knife and fork down, John leaned his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips against his temples. “It was seeing him again, seeing him alive….”

“Sherlock?”

“Who else?” A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from between John’s lips. “It’s not every day you meet Lazarus face to face.”

“Forget him John, he couldn’t wait to be let off the hook.”

“What?”

“In the hospital.” Mary explained. “When I told him you weren’t up to seeing him right away his relief was written all over his smug face – he couldn’t get out of there quick enough!”

Pale faced with grief John shoved himself away from the table, wincing as the pressure on his bandaged hands set the nerves in his burnt palms screaming at their mistreatment. Without looking back he headed once more towards the stairs.

Mary leapt up also, reaching out to him as he stormed past her but he avoided her grasp.

“No Mary,” he said looking steadfastly up towards their bedroom. “No, I just want some time alone.”

He almost ran up the stairs, and as the bedroom door closed once more behind him Mary started to clear the table, a small smile playing around her lips as hummed softly to herself.


	3. Out in the Rain

After a mostly sleepless night, disturbed by sharp pains and bad dreams the like of which he hadn’t suffered since he first returned from Afghanistan, John waited until Mary had left for her morning shift at the surgery then pulled on his overcoat and stepped out of the house.

Initially he had no clear idea where he wanted to go, but gradually his route took him west, towards the theatres and the bustle of the London crowds, although John saw none of this. His mind was replaying the last forty-eight hours, from being snatched outside the surgery, the fire and the knowledge that Sherlock was alive overlaid with the sight of his Belstaff flapping like great black wings as he fell from the roof of the hospital, his blood staining the familiar pavement….

He came to a halt, suddenly becoming aware of the people and traffic around him before he spotted her – Anthea, or whatever it was she was calling herself these days – standing beside the sleek black car, looking pointedly in his direction.

Uncertain, John ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but in her direction, not wanting to make eye contact yet unable to actually move away.

“Doctor Watson.” Suddenly she was there beside him. “Mr Holmes would like to speak with you.”

“Which one?” To his dismay John’s voice came out cracked and broken. He screwed up his eyes and looked at her, still not meeting her bland gaze but keeping his eye line somewhere in the region of her scarlet coated lips, missing the almost disbelieving expression on her face as she raised her eyebrows.

“Mr Mycroft Holmes, Doctor Watson. I’m sure you were already aware.” She returned her attention to her blackberry, adding “Please doctor, now is not the time to behave like a child.”

“Oh really?” suddenly angry, John’s head came up. “Behaving like a child? Maybe he’d like to come and speak to me man to man instead of sending a lackey.”

Turning on his heel John started to march away but a slender hand grasped his arm.

“It’s not a good idea…” Anthea’s voice dried in her throat as she encountered the blazing fury in the ex-soldiers eye.

“How dare you!  More to the point how dare Mycroft bloody Holmes think he can order me about?” John was seething. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get into one of that man’s cars again.”

Without a backwards glance the doctor hurried away, paying no heed to his destination, just intent on putting distance between himself and the British Government.

If John had taken the time to glance behind him he might have noticed a rather shaken looking Anthea nodding to a dark suited gentleman who had been standing inconspicuously looking at a newspaper stand.  Peeling away he kept pace with the ex-army doctor, following at a discreet distance as the other man headed deeper into the crowds of early Christmas shoppers.

xXx

The babble of voices in the main office died, and Lestrade stood up to see what had caused the interruption to the daily jokes and sexist remarks.

Somehow he’d know that it had to be him.

“Okay you lot, seeing a dead man walking is no excuse to stop work – get back to it.”

He waved the smirking consultant through to his office and gestured to Donovan to join them which she did, closing the door emphatically behind her and glaring at the younger man.

“Right,” Greg started, standing between the other two as if to prevent a fight. “There is an apology owed here….”

“There certainly is,” Sherlock spoke up. “My ears were ringing….”

“What?  Me?  I owe you an apology?” Donovan was oblivious to the hush that had descended once more over the officers in the outer room. “You bloody well jump off a building, convincing everyone that you are dead, then out of the blue you come back and just expect to waltz back onto our crime scenes?”

Sherlock’s expression morphed almost instantly from smug to stung, and he looked, puzzled, at Lestrade.

“She’s right Sherlock,” Greg sighed, motioning the two antagonists to sit down. “You really need to realise the effect your actions had on many of us – not least John and Mrs Hudson – and while yes, your brother was instrumental in clearing your name, that doesn’t give you carte blanche to pick up where you left off.”

“And what of your arrest figures?”

“They’re not as bad as you think.” Sally studied her nails as she spoke. “We may take a little longer but we get there, we make the arrests and we get the results.”

“And before you say something insulting Sherlock, it may surprise you to know that despite all of the jibes my team do know their job, and I will take exception to you continuing to make snarky remarks about their abilities.”

Sherlock raised a faintly disbelieving eyebrow.

Donovan smirked, but her victory was short lived.

“Likewise I won’t have my team baiting my consultant.” Greg turned a stern eye on the Detective Sergeant. “It belittles us all, as does the name calling – it stops here and it stops now.”

Silence descended over the trio, as each settled momentarily into their own thoughts – Greg wondering if his edict will work, Sally debating whether her boss actually meant what he said about name calling, and Sherlock deleting the whole conversation (apart from Lestrade’s words “my consultant”) from his hard drive.

Drawing in a deep breath Greg shook himself out of his stupor.

“Right, now with that settled, Sally I want you to fill him in on the latest spate of disappearances…..”

xXx

Mycroft was speechless. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he was left in this state by another human being other than his little brother.

There were many times the antics of his irrepressibly curious sibling left him standing adrift in a sea of exploded experiments, but Sherlock was the only person who ever refused to get into one of Mycroft’s fleet of cars and got away with it.

And it left the embodiment of the British Government was in a quandary.

He needed Sherlock’s assistance – after all, that was why he had personally gone to fetch him home – but Sherlock wanted Dr Watson, and after the last confrontation with the doctor’s fiancée his brother had refused to discuss the possibility of taking Mycroft’s case, instead he had taken himself back to New Scotland Yard and his friend Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft was as close to desperate as he had ever been.

As he watched John on his monitor another email alert flashed in the corner, and he switched tabs to read the latest missive.

Things had moved on apace – one of the minnows had let slip some new information about dates, and it appeared that this coming Wednesday featured heavily in their plans. Mycroft consulted his desk calendar – 5th. Yes, it made sense. All he had to do now was work out exactly what they planned to do, and for that he really needed his brother. Reaching out he picked up his mobile.

It rang exactly three times before his brother’s bored tones responded.

“I’m not interested Mycroft, go away.”

“I could make you do it, brother mine.”

There was a pause as the younger Holmes brother gave instructions to the cabbie.

“No,” he continued a moment later. “No, I don’t think you can. And anyway, I’m working this case of mysterious disappearances for Lestrade.”

“And we both know the answer to that one.”

“We know the How, and even the Why seeing that each ‘kidnapped’ person returns home within a few days with no knowledge of where they had been or what had happened while they were gone, but it’s the Who that interests me.” Sherlock leaned forward and tapped on the cabbie’s window. “Here will do.” And with his phone pressed to his ear he stepped out of the traffic bound cab and into the road, shoving notes at the driver before weaving in and out of the stationary cars.

“Mycroft just get your…..” He looked up as he reached the pavement and saw John, head down against the driving rain walking towards him. “Goodbye Mycroft.”

With a flick of his fingers he cut the call and strode forward.

Sherlock’s eyes took in everything about the man walking towards him, hunched and miserable looking, with no clear purpose, and oblivious to the fact that some fifty yards back he had passed his old home.

As the younger man slowed his pace so too did John, as if sensing an imminent collision, but then he looked up, and what colour had been left in his cold pinched cheeks drained away completely.

“John.”

Breaking the silence that seemed to blot out everything around them also broke the spell that had held both men immobile, and John launched forward, heedless of his still bandaged hands and grasped the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff.

“You bastard!” he spat viciously. “Where…What did I do to deserve two years of grief?  If you wanted to end the relationship why not do it the old fashioned way and just tell me?”

John’s breath was coming in harsh sobs, and he seemed in real danger of hyperventilating.

“John please….”

“Please what? Please accept that you pretended to be dead? Please try to forget those years of pain? Please try to understand why you walked away from the hospital without a backward glance? Fuck you Sherlock!”

Pushing away from his one-time lover John tried to walk around him but stumbled, his legs folding under him like jelly, and only Sherlock’s swift reflexes prevented him from hitting the floor.

“John, let me help you…”

John snarled like a caged animal, but Sherlock held on tightly.

“Look, Mrs Hudson’s is only a little way back along the road, let me get you into the warm.”

Sherlock didn’t know whether to be glad or terrified when John finally sagged against him, all the fight seemingly gone out of him, and dragging his feet he allowed himself to be led back to that familiar black door, too shaken to even notice that Sherlock let himself in rather than knocking.

Hearing the scuffling of the two men as they staggered through the door, Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat.

“John!” she exclaimed. “Oh my goodness Sherlock, what have you done to him?”

Not giving her tenant time to reply she insinuated herself under John’s other arm and together she and Sherlock manhandled him into her living room, dragging his soaking wet coat from his shoulders before settling him into an armchair in front of the fire

“Now, you settle yourself there John, and let me get you a nice cu of tea.”

“Mrs Hudson, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to cause you problems…” John blinked up at his former landlady, but she waved away his apology.

“If I know anything John Watson, it’s that this great lump of a genius here is to blame for whatever has happened to you today, now you just sit and relax, and you…” she turned to Sherlock and pointed to the chair on the other side of the fire. “You just sit there and hold your peace!”

As she marched back out to her kitchen John looked across and caught Sherlock’s eye, and before either man knew what was happening they were giggling hysterically.

“Well that told you,” John chortled, trying to control his spasms of laughter. “You great lump!”

“Not fair,” Sherlock struggled against the giggles. “She always blames me.”

John sobered up.

“Yes, and sometimes you deserve it.” He said softly.

“Will you let me tell you why I did what I did?”

After a moment’s hesitation John nodded. From the doorway Mrs Hudson watched as, for the first time in his life Sherlock tried to explain his actions.

Neither man noticed Mrs Hudson coming in with the teapot, milk and sugar, nor the amount of that beverage that they managed between them to consume, but all too soon Sherlock found himself staring into John’s bewildered blue eyes as the doctor asked the one question the younger man had dreaded hearing.

“Who knew?”

“Well…..” Sherlock’s eyes slid away to gaze into the fire. “Mycroft; he helped me set up the meeting with Moriarty, but it didn’t go as I planned.”

“Obviously.” John said drily. “So, just Mycroft, and I assume his minions….”

“No.”

Running the edge of his thumbnail across his eyebrow, John looked down at the now cold cup of tea in his hand and asked softly “Then who else?”

“Molly.” Sherlock winced as the name sounded loud in the room, and in the doorway Martha Hudson drew a shocked breath.

Swallowing hard, John placed his cup on the table.

“So, Mycroft and Molly. How about Greg? Sally and Anderson? Your homeless…..” he broke off as he saw the expression on the other man’s face. “How many? Fifty? A hundred?”

“About twenty five.”

“So, you trusted your brother, who you never trust, Molly – what did you offer her?  A quick shag?  A date? – and a bunch of homeless people, but you couldn’t trust me?  Oh of course, I was only the one you said you loved,” John’s voice cracked, and he stood up. “I was the one you made stand and watch and believe that you had committed suicide…”

Sherlock leapt to his feet.

“No John, you don’t understand…”

But he was unable to finish his sentence as John’s fist connected with his face, spattering blood from his nose across the shoulder of his Spencer Hart suit.

Turning on his heel John muttered an apology to a horrified Mrs Hudson and was out of the building and into a cab before Sherlock could regain his equilibrium.

Handing Sherlock a box of tissues his landlady sat in the seat so recently vacated by the doctor and shook her head.

“Well, that didn’t go too well, did it?”


	4. Come Back, Bring Back my Smile

As soon as John stepped through the door Mary knew, she could see in every line of his body the distress that could only have come from talking to Sherlock Holmes.

She bit her lip, waiting to be quizzed about the lies she had told, but the question never came. Instead he wearily dragged his jacket off and slumped into his favourite armchair.

“Sweetheart, do you want tea?” Laying her hand on his shoulder Mary smiled down at him, her smile fading a little as he shook his head. “Are you okay?”

“I met Sherlock.”

“Oh?”

John glanced up at her, but saw nothing in her expression but polite interest.

“I went for a walk,” he sighed eventually. “And literally bumped into him in Baker Street –I hadn’t realised I’d walked that far…”

“Baker Street?” Mary’s expression became all anxious concern.  “No wonder you’re worn out! Now you sit and rest there, I’ll make us something to eat.”

Reaching up John laid his hand over hers.

“Thanks love, where would I be without you?”

Mary dropped a kiss on John’s forehead and moved back through to the kitchen, her mind turning over how much time John may have spent with his ex-partner, and what Sherlock may or may not have said to him.

Watching her walk away John sighed quietly.  He knew he was lying both to himself and to her – the time spent with Sherlock, despite how the meeting had ended, had reignited all those feelings he thought had died, brought them rushing back in a flood of anger and want, desperation and despair.

In his mind he turned Sherlock’s words over and over – the  set up that went wrong, Mycroft, Molly and the homeless network’s involvement, the snipers and death threats – the words whizzed around in his head like an out of control merry-go-round, until he could barely be sure that the words made sense. 

The only thing John was certain of was the tightness in his chest and the fluttering in his stomach – it had been two years since he had felt like this, and it was a feeling he had longed for, that he had thought never to feel again. He closed his eyes to savour the surge of emotion, and by the time Mary returned with food he was fast asleep.

xXx

Mycroft looked down at his brother, signs of a fight still evident in the slight swelling of his nose and the blood red staining on his upper lip.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep Sherlock, nor lost in your mind palace – your avoidance tactics are childish to say the very least.”

Not bothering to even open his eyes, Sherlock remained alert even though every inch of his body said ‘sleeping, disengaged’.

“I see John found his way back to you this afternoon.”

Still no response.

Mycroft was beginning to lose his customary cool – for years his brother had been difficult to deal with but since his return, and John’s rejection of him, the elder Holmes’ belief that ‘caring is not an advantage’ had been strengthened – and he was less tolerant of Sherlock’s foibles than he had ever been.

Added to this was his anger at not being able to command the good doctor’s presence, to persuade him to help with the terrorist threat, to appeal to his sense of duty, was irking him.

“He refused to meet me, flatly refused Anthea’s invitation to accept a lift to my office….”

This information finally drew a response from the younger Holmes. He grinned and sat up, his eyes deducing Mycroft’s bewilderment at the ex-army doctor’s action.

His grin widened.

“Good for you, John.” he murmured, just loud enough for his brother to hear.

“Not really.” Mycroft snapped. “I had hoped I could discuss this terrorist threat with him, and then persuade him to help make you see sense….”

“Admit it.”

Mycroft clenched his teeth and looked disdainfully at his sibling.

His sibling cocked an arrogant eyebrow in his direction.

“Admit it Mycroft.” He repeated softly. “Admit that you need my help.”

The Government official stalked over to sit in an armchair.

“Really Sherlock, must we play these games?  You were well aware that I brought you back here specifically to work on this.” in an unusual moment of weakness, Mycroft sat back and wiped a weary hand across his eyes. “We have just days, Sherlock. Days before whatever they plan to do will actually happen – what will it take for you to just this once assist without making a drama out of it?”

“A good reason.”

“And I suppose that the fact that we now know the date of the proposed attack?  It will happen in two days’ time, on November 5th.”

Slowly the smile slipped from Sherlock’s face.

“John.”

“I’ve told you, he won’t…”

“No! I mean John was put into a bonfire, Wednesday night is Guy Fawkes night – John is already involved, whether he wants to be or not!”

xXx

Climbing out of the cab Mrs Hudson looked at the house John shared with Mary.  She had never visited before, even though John had invited her when the couple had first moved in – it had always seemed too hard to deal with, knowing what her boys had meant to each other.

Now, taking a deep breath she stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

“Mrs Hudson?” Mary frowned as she saw who was standing on the doorstep.

“Hello Mary dear,” Martha Hudson bustled forward. “Is John in?”

“Well….” The younger lady was forced to step back as John’s former landlady walked past her into the hallway, looking all around her as she did so. “He’s not really….”

But Mrs Hudson had already found her way through to the living room, and was exclaiming quietly over the doctor who had woken up and was struggling to his feet.

“Mrs Hudson!” John pulled her into a hug, and then led her to a chair. “What’s happened?  Is it Sherlock?”

Standing in the doorway Mary rolled her eyes.

“Whenever isn’t it Sherlock?” She asked, joining them and sitting on the couch.

John shot her a confused look, but Mary’s face was completely wiped clean of expression, showing only a slight air of concern as she looked at the octogenarian.

“Actually, it’s Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” Mary and John exclaimed together.

“Now what has the posh git done?” John wiped a hand down his face and sat back down in his chair. “If he’s putting pressure onto you because I refused to get into his car….”

“No dear, but….” she paused and looked at Mary. “May I have a cup of tea do you think?”

John rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?”

He went to stand but Mary was on her feet first, waving him back into his chair as she walked out to the kitchen.

“He wants Sherlock to take on a case for him” Martha Hudson continued, lowering her voice and speaking hurriedly. “Something to do with a terrorist threat. Now you know Sherlock doesn’t like doing work for his brother...”

“That’s an understatement.”

“…but Mycroft said something about the plot being tied in with Guy Fawkes night – well, Sherlock started to panic, especially after your bit of trouble.”

“Bit of trouble?” Mary placed a tray on the table and proceeded to pour the tea.

“Well I think that’s putting it mildly – some bastard drugged me and put me in a bonfi….” John’s voice trailed off, his eyes widening in realisation. “Guy Fawkes?”

“Apparently whatever it is that’s going to happen will happen on Wednesday – Sherlock is convinced that whether or not you want to be, you’re involved.”

“But why? Why John?”

“Mary it’s obvious, whoever is doing this is playing with Mycroft, Mycroft in turn was forced to bring his brother back from wherever he’s been hiding these past two years, and to ensure they have Sherlock’s attention they decided to take me – dead or alive, they knew he’d come running…..Dear God I thought I was past all of this!”

“John!” Mary was on her knees beside his chair in a flash.

Mrs Hudson just sat and watched, remaining silent as John struggled with his inner demons. After several long moments the doctor looked up, meeting her gaze with steely determination.

“Why you?” he asked. “Why didn’t Sherlock come himself?  After all, he knows where I live – you told him.”

“He didn’t think he’d get through the door, let alone be allowed to explain.” Taking a delicate sip of her tea Mrs Hudson looked up at him through lowered eyes and waited.

“And isn’t it just like Sherlock to get someone else to do his dirty work for him.  You shouldn’t let him use you Mrs H.”

“I offered.” Placing her cup and saucer back down she leaned forward and patted his knee. “He needs your help John; even if you cannot bring yourself to forgive what he did to you – to all of us – what you had together must count for something?”

“Stop it!” Mary cried. “Stop it; you can’t guilt him into helping.”

“She doesn’t need to.” John took hold of his girlfriend’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as his other hand moved to tip her face towards him. “I’m involved – the kidnap ensured that – and yes, I may be angry, no – bloody furious – with Sherlock, I owe him a lot.  I wouldn’t be here at all if weren’t for him.”

“But he…”

“No, seriously Mary, long before Moriarty raised his ugly head and Sherlock jumped, even before we….” he looked away, remembering. “Look, let me do this one thing to help him, and then I promise I’ll sit down and discuss this with you properly.”

Grey-green eyes scanned his face, reading determination and sadness where she had hoped to still find anger, and knowing that he would go with or without her blessing Mary smiled and nodded.

“Go on then.” She said softly. “Just leave me the car, in case I have to come rescue the pair of you!”

With a grateful grin John stood, pulling Mary up into a hugs then turned to Mrs Hudson.

“Did you come in one of Mycroft’s cars?”

The older lady chuckled.

“If I did would you get in it?”

“No” John grinned back at her.

“Then it’s just as well Sherlock gave me the cab fare for both journeys.”

“Well, you’ll be lucky to find a black cab around here.” Mary reached into her jeans pocket for her mobile. “I’ll ring for a taxi, you get ready to go.” Her hand reached out and grabbed John’s forearm as he went to leave the room. “Just come back to me?”

“Of course.” John reassured his girlfriend, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. “Don’t worry, okay?”

xXx

In the back of the mini cab the atmosphere was tensely silent. John was very aware of his former landlady’s gaze on him, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the passing scenery.

“You still love him.” The softly spoken words broke the silence.

John turned and looked at the woman sitting next to him. Part of him wanted to lie, to say he hated Sherlock and everything he had done to them both, but he knew that Mrs Hudson knew him far too well for that. Instead he swallowed, and looked away again.

“Always have, always will.” He said quietly. “But I have Mary now, and I don’t really know what to do.” He glanced back at Mrs Hudson with a small sad smile.

“What do you want to do?”

“God I don’t know. Turn back the clock?  Have the last two years wiped out, so this never happened?” John shook his head. “Make him promise never to do it again?  Do you think he would?  Promise me that and actually mean it?”

“He loves you John, he’s hurting as much as you are, because what he did he did for you….”

“And you and Greg.” The doctor reminded her, but she tutted and shook her head at him.

“If it had been just the Inspector and me, he would have tried all ways possible to prevent us getting hurt, but if it had happened he would have acknowledged it and then moved on – he counts us as friends, but we are not you!”

“Yet he took off without a thought for those he left behind – without a care – just buggered off for the adventure!” John’s voice rose, causing the mini cab driver to give him a hard stare in the rear-view mirror.

“I would never have believed you could be so unforgiving! The John Watson I know….”

“I’m no longer the John Watson you knew Mrs Hudson – I learned a hard lesson from Sherlock, and learned it well.”

“Now stop it! If you really feel that to be true why have you agreed to come?”

John opened his mouth to answer, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand.

“Don’t try to tell me you are doing it because of what happened Saturday night, I won’t believe you.” She fixed him with gimlet eye. “You have come because he needs you, and you know it.”

The vehicle pulled up outside 221B, forestalling any further conversation, and as Mrs Hudson used Sherlock’s money to pay and tip the driver John stood and looked up at the front of the house, his mind in turmoil.

Was he really here because Sherlock needed him, or was it something a little more selfish? If he was honest, wasn’t the truth that he just couldn’t stay away, from Sherlock, from the work, from the madness that was life with the worlds only regenerated consulting detective.

 

 

 


	5. The Nights are so Unkind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter - the story-line was there but the words wouldn't come :(

Warily climbing the stairs to the flat, John could hear voices – one excitable, eager to have someone believe him, the other a deep, rumbling baritone that spoke directly to John’s heart.

He stopped and closed his eyes for a second, and took a deep breath. He could feel Mrs Hudson’s gaze on his back, willing him to go further up the stairs.

With a brief shake of his head John moved on, the voices that had before just been sounds now became coherent to his ears.

“Mr Holmes, just look at the disc – I copied it especially to show you.” The stranger was saying. “You’ll see what I mean about the man in the last carriage disappearing…”

Sherlock looked up to see John stepping through the door. 

“Yes, yes, leave it with me.” He said, pulling his visitor to his feet by means of grabbing the back of his jacket. “And leave me an address where I can return your disc.”

“Um…” John looked at them both in confusion. “You don’t have to get rid of your client just because…..”

“Not a client yet John, I need to look at this disc before I commit to it, and at the moment I have a bigger case to attend.”

“W..what?” the stranger stuttered. “Bigger than a man disappearing from a moving train?”

“Later.” Sherlock shoved him out the door, calling down to their landlady. “Mrs Hudson! Get Mr Shilcott’s address from him before you let him leave.” And without waiting to hear the landlady’s response he slammed shut the flat door and turned.

“John.”

John was just standing in the middle of the living room staring back at him.

“John?”

A small frown creased Sherlock’s brow as John just continued to stare. He opened his mouth once more but the smaller man held up a hand to silence him.

“Your brother wants you to take on a case, and Mrs Hudson tells me it’s got something to do with me being drugged and placed in the middle of a bonfire.”

“There can only be one reason for you to have been put there John, they wanted to get my attention.”

“Then why text my fiancée?”  John watched Sherlock wince at his use of the term. “Not just once but twice?  Oh I don’t doubt that he was watching our house, because he knew the minute you joined her – she’s shown me the texts – why drag us into this?”

“Because……” Sherlock’s voice trailed off. He wanted to say that Mary shouldn’t have been involved, that it was about the two of them, but there was no longer ‘the two of them’, and John was obviously unhappy about having his hand forced in this way.

“No, don’t tell me, you’re old number was still cutting straight to a message saying your  voicemail is full ,and Mycroft hadn’t had time to clear down the  thousands of text messages on it…”

“Not possible, when I dropped it there were hardly any….” Realisation dawned, and Sherlock was left staring, his mouth hanging open.

John let the information percolate around the genius’ brain, and moved to sit on the couch. Sherlock sank down beside him.

“You?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You sent texts.”

“Hundreds.” John confessed.

“And the voicemails?”

“And the voicemails.” John agreed. “So many that I filled your phone until it couldn’t take any more.”

In the silence that followed Sherlock looked more closely at his former lover. Stress had left its mark in the lines on his face, and the returned tremor in his left hand. Seeing how John clenched his fist to try to control his reactions almost broke his heart.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered finally.

John looked down at his lap, clasping his hands together and chewing his bottom lip.

“Yeah, me too.” He said finally.

“I do need your help though.” Mentally Sherlock was kicking himself. That’s not what he wanted to say – he wanted to say ‘I love you, I’m sorry, forgive me, take me back’ but he had to acknowledge he was afraid.

John nodded.

“Something about the fifth of November?  Only your fucking brother could find a modern day Guy Fawkes, complete with Gunpowder Plot.” John scrubbed both hands over his face.

“Will you help me?”

Sherlock’s voice was uncharacteristically meek, and John’s eyes shot up to examine the other man’s face.  It had been a long time, but he still remembered the little tells of guile being used to advantage against him. He could see none of them now though – either Sherlock had become better at hiding them or he genuinely expected to be turned down. He swallowed painfully.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Under duress John. I sent Mrs Hudson knowing that you’d find it hard to say no….”

“Stop.”  John leapt to his feet and started to pace. “Yes, I would have found it hard to say no….hard, Sherlock, but not impossible.” He paused and blew out a gusty breath. “I’m not here because you want me here, nor because your brother wants me here, not even because Mrs H put your case very sympathetically. I’m here because whoever is doing this involved me when they shoved me into a bonfire – it couldn’t have been a bigger invitation could it?”

There seemed nothing else to say, so Sherlock, for once, said nothing.  He sat and waited.

After a moment or two John slumped back down onto the couch.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Take me through the evidence so far.”

xXx

Watching the shadows on the bedroom ceiling, Mary Morstan lay wide awake despite it being past midnight.

The only contact she’d had from John since he had left in the cab with his old landlady was a text to tell her not to wait for him before having dinner, and not to wait up – he would probably be late.

She imagined him and Sherlock sharing a take-away, that it would be just like old times and John would want to break off their engagement.

Forcing the thought away she closed her eyes, but her treacherous brain helpfully supplied pictures of Sherlock with her John in all manner of lewd and compromising positions. Mary knew John’s body intimately – Sherlock’s she could only imagine….and at that precise time she hated her imagination!

Rolling onto her side Mary looked at the clock – just five minutes shy of one a.m. – and her fingers itched to reach out for her mobile to ring her errant other half and demand he return home, after all she had a legitimate reason to do it, John was expected at the surgery next morning and he really couldn’t take more time off, not if he wanted to remain the best candidate for the offer of a partnership in the practice.

She was just about to give in and ring when she heard his key in the door, his soft footsteps straight up the stairs and heading towards the bedroom, and she closed her eyes and slowed down her breathing, but he wasn’t fooled.

“I told you not to wait up for me.” He said softly, sitting on the bed and pulling her over onto her back. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Mary looked up at him, her grey-green eyes shining with unshed tears, and her bottom lip trembling.

Stroking a finger across her damp lashes and down her cheek John shook his head.

“This isn’t nothing.” He countered. “Something has upset you. Is it me? Sherlock?” Leaning down John placed a soft kiss on the corner of her downturned lips. “Is it this case of his?”

“I’m…I’m afraid John – these people have tried once already to kill you, and bloody Sherlock is just a magnet for trouble….”

As the tears spilled down her cheeks John pulled Mary up into his arms and held her tight, whispering  reassurances and promises that he would be careful, that he was only acting as a sounding board for Sherlock’s thoughts in the same way that he always used to do, but later as they lay together, Mary sleeping peacefully with her head resting on John’s chest, he acknowledged that he was lying to them both if he thought this was just a one-time event.

xXx

By lunchtime Tuesday Sherlock was no further forward with Mycroft’s terror plot, but after his time spent both with John and afterwards, in his Mind Palace, he at least had an answer for Lestrade – the problem was that he believed they were linked, and this was what brought him to his brother’s club in time to watch his older sibling sit down to a hearty meal in the Stranger’s room.

“You’re sure you won’t join me?” Mycroft gestured to the food in front of him. “I can have Charles bring in a second plate.”

Sherlock shook his head with a smirk.

“No, I’m sure you’ll tuck away enough for both of us brother dear, you go right ahead and don’t mind me.”

“You have picked up some very American phraseology in your travels…”

“Spent six months travelling all over the States, I needed to fit in.”

“But you didn’t need to bring the States back with you.” Mycroft tucked into his soup starter, delicately dipping a fresh crusty roll into the thick liquid. “However, I’m sure you haven’t dragged yourself away from Baker Street solely to irritate me, so what is it you want?”

Pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket, Sherlock placed it on the table beside his brother’s wine glass.

“I want to know what it is that connects these people.” He said, his fingertips still resting lightly on the paper. “Because it would appear that someone is doing their very best to keep Scotland Yard busy without actually committing a heinous crime – yes, they would be charged with kidnapping, false imprisonment and unlawfully administering sedatives to their victims, but they always return their victims unharmed to the place from which they vanished.”

Pausing for a moment he placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.

“They are taken from their place of work, no one sees the kidnap take place , there is not even any CCTV recording of it…”

“Seems like you aren’t the only one skilled in avoidance tactics.” Mycroft shrugged, moving on to his main course of honey roast stuffed lamb.

“True, but they are not clever enough to muddy the waters by diversifying occasionally.”

“How so?”

“They all work for large corporations within service industry; at least three are contract managers, the other two work at Board level. It would take Lestrade too long to convince the organisations to hand over the details of their work, especially when I am certain it connects them, or the reason they were taken, to your terrorist plot – we have less than a day to find the solution, that is, if your intelligence is correct.” He raised a challenging eyebrow at his brother, but Mycroft ignored it, taking a sip of his wine and looking at the list in front of him.

“I’ll have my people look at it.” There was a pause, as if he wanted to say more, but in the end Mycroft just pushed aside his plate and rose to his feet. “What will you do now?”

“I’m going to see if Lestrade has any more information for me, and let him know what we have found so far.”

“We? I assume then that John has forgiven you?” Mycroft looked pointedly at his brother “Yet he isn’t here with you.”

Sherlock blew out a breath, deflating just a little as he met his brother’s gaze.

“No, John hasn’t forgiven me, but he has agreed to help me with this.”

“Ah, just like old times then.”

“Not at all.” The younger Holmes snapped. “Like old times would have him here at my side, persuaded that this was more important than his work at the surgery – however that is exactly where he is, looking after children with runny noses and old men with prostate issues so no, Mycroft, not at all like old times.”

In a swirl of dark woollen coat Sherlock spun round and headed for the door.

“And where are you headed off to now?” Mycroft barely raised his voice, but his brother stopped nonetheless.

“Scotland Yard. All of these incidents had been kept out of the press, I want to see if there have been any more,  or any unexpected developments.” He didn’t add that for all his confidence – or even arrogance – he was afraid that the Yard had lost the habit of calling on him, and he wanted to make sure that he reminded then that he was now back.

But his brother it seemed had understood all that had been left unsaid, as he nodded and waved him off with a quiet adjuration to return later to the office in Whitehall where Mycroft usually held court, as he hoped to have some information for him soon.

xXx

 Anthea wasn’t particularly happy.

She prided herself on being able to deliver above and beyond what was asked of her, yet twice in the space of three days she found herself unable to meet her own exacting standards.

Part of her respected John Watson for refusing to be cowed, but it didn’t make her job any easier.  Mr Holmes had wanted to talk to the doctor but instead she was left standing on the pavement watching his departing figure as he stormed off along the road.

And now…..well, she looked down at the thin manila folder in her hands and chewed at her scarlet painted lips. That there was so little to learn about Miss Mary Morstan was suspicious in itself, but that she could not even find traces of her past life beyond a few desultory reports from a school (long since closed), and some references from university lecturers and previous employers all written by people that remembered her, or thought they did, and all seemed in agreement that she was quiet, unremarkable….in short Anthea believed they were all lying. 

She couldn’t shake the feeling that these honest and hard-working people had been duped into providing them, and now were concerned that they had committed some sort of criminal offence.

Whatever the truth of it, Anthea was not looking forward to trying to explain this failure.

“Ah, Anthea.” Mycroft’s voice sliced through her thoughts. “Is that the information I asked for?”

“Yes sir,” She answered, holding the folder out to him. “There’s hardly anything known about her before she joined the same practice as Dr Watson, she rented a flat a short distance from her workplace, and opened a new bank account.”

As he motioned to her to follow him into his office she continued “There is no trace of a previous bank account that I can find, nor medical records which in this day and age is unheard of.”

“It may well be, but it’s no more than I expected.” Mycroft settled himself behind his desk and looked up at his assistant. “It wasn’t until she challenged my brother at the hospital that she showed herself to be anything other than the façade she has presented to the world – in that moment she showed something of the real Mary Morstan, although I seriously doubt she realises the consequences of her action.”

“No sir,” Anthea agreed. “But then, anyone who attracts your attention seldom realises the consequences until it’s far too late.”

 

 


	6. Say You Love Me Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay....

Mary watched as John left the surgery and headed towards the tube station. He was going to Scotland Yard to meet Sherlock, and he had told her not to expect him home until late in the evening, that he and Sherlock would no doubt get a take-away while they worked.

With a smile she waved him off, then turned and went back into the building to change out of her uniform. The other surgery nurse, her job-share partner, looked up as she walked into the staffroom.

“Everything okay?” Sofia was an older lady, daughter of wartime Polish exiles and just working part time to see out the last few years before retirement. An excellent nurse, she was also a mother figure to the rest of the staff, her soft heart always open to take on the woes of her adopted family.

Mary shrugged, and then shook her head. Sofia was up on her feet in no time, pulling the younger woman into her ample bosom.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Held tightly in that warm embrace Mary broke down.

“It’s John….” She sobbed, not bothering to try to control the flood of tears or the wobble in her voice.

“Dr Watson?” Sofia sounded perturbed. “Why, what on earth has he done?”

They stood wrapped together until the sound of sobbing gradually subsided.

“Oh, it’s not what he’s done,” Mary pulled away and slumped into a nearby easy chair. “It’s what’s been done to him.”

“The bonfire? I thought you said…”

“Mistaken identity, that’s what Sherlock wanted me to believe, but I think there’s something more to it that.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” The other woman sat down next to the distraught nurse and gently squeezed her hand. “It’s far too coincidental that suddenly Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead, and Dr Watson is kidnapped and nearly killed.”

Mary dabbed at her eyes and gave a small, watery smile.

“John has gone to meet him now, to talk about what happened. I know he’s big enough to make up his own mind and decide for himself what he wants to do, but I’m worried…”

Not meeting Mary’s eyes, Sofia shifted a little awkwardly in her chair.

“There was talk….” She started.

“About?” Mary knew what was coming; she also knew that John was not ashamed to have his colleagues know exactly how things had been.

“Well….we heard that Dr Watson…John…and Sherlock Holmes….”The older nurse’s voice trailed off, embarrassed.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“They were lovers. John is bi-sexual; he’s always been upfront about that. I’ve known from day one that he loved Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary’s strong support of her fiancé brought the older woman’s eyes snapping up to hers, a look of combined shock and respect in them.

“I wish you would ask him instead of whispering rumours amongst yourselves.” Despite her words, Mary sounded more resigned than angry. “He’s never advertised it, but equally he’s never tried to hide it – he has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, no of course not!” A little flustered now, Sofia checked her watch. “Oh dear, I suppose I had better get out and start the afternoon surgery.” She paused, and then added “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mary smiled and grabbed her jacket. “I’m just a little tired; I’ll go home and relax for a while. Thanks for the shoulder….see you Friday.” She waved as they left the staff room, the two walking off in different directions, but as soon as she reached her car she slumped behind the wheel, her mind working furiously, turning over half formed plans and possibilities.

xXx

John was aware of the eyes following him through the outer office as he walked towards Greg’s seemingly crowded workspace. As well as Greg and Sherlock, there were Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson and DI Dimmock all standing around discussing – quite loudly – the series of kidnappings.

As he drew nearer John could barely believe his ears – Anderson was supporting everything Sherlock had to say. His bemusement must have been apparent as he walked through the doorway, because Sherlock caught his eye and grinned.

Stepping away from the others he leant down and whispered into John’s ear.

“Apparently he always believed in me…”

John stifled a laugh – that really was a turn up for the books!

“How far have you got with this?” It was an effort to stick to the reason he had come here. John wanted nothing more than to drag Sherlock back to Baker Street to talk.  He wanted to talk and talk until they had sorted everything that was between them, sorted it so that they could move on. It wasn’t to be.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him across to where all the evidence was laid out.

“As you can see, all of our victims have one thing in common.” He waved a hand at the pictures and notes. A hush fell over the room.

John stepped up and looked at the victim pictures and profiles one at a time, giving thought to each one before moving on

“There’s no new information about the first five victims here, just information about the two new ones.” He said almost to himself, “so what has changed?”

“Look at the map…”

“Yes…what?” John spun round to see Sherlock grinning at him.

“Look at the map.” He repeated, pointing to a map that was being projected onto a blank wall – blank but for copies of the victim’s photographs, stuck strategically at points on the map, unlike the copies that were haphazardly strewn across the desk. “Now watch.”

With a flick of a couple of computer keys red lines were drawn across the map, dividing it into areas…

“Wards?” John asked with a frown. “Are they Political wards?”

“Brilliant, John! You haven’t lost your touch; you can still follow my reasoning.”

“No thanks to you.” Sally muttered.

“Shut it Sally.” Greg warned, but neither John nor Sherlock were paying attention.

Sherlock was watching John – but John, head tilted to one side, was considering the picture before him. The silence stretched.

Anderson was about to ask if John had anything more helpful; to add when the doctor turned and frowned at the consulting detective.

“The victims – they’re all industrialists?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes flicking from John to the pictures on the wall.

“Who are the MP’s for these wards?”

Sally shuffled through a pile of papers in front of her. “Hang on,” she said distractedly. “We have the list of Elected Members for most of the London constituencies….”

“If there’s a link there you’ll need to check the ones outside your normal areas.” Sherlock held out an imperious hand for the list. “Right, John – how’s your knowledge of politics these days?”

John rolled his eyes.

“Just read them out….”

So Sherlock read, and John scrawled MP’s names on each of the wards where the victims lived. At last they completed the picture for the London based MP’s.

“What does that tell you John?”

“That you would have better spent your time brushing up on politics.” John sighed. “All of these have a connection to industry or portfolios covering the business sector.” He turned and looked at the officers in the room. “If I’m allowed to make a suggestion? Check the MP’s of the out-of-town victims, if they are similarly set up then I would suggest you have your connection.”

Turning back he looked at the wall once more. “Meanwhile, Sherlock and I work on the reasoning behind the kidnappings.”

xXx

How long she lay on the bed Mary wasn’t sure.  Staring at the ceiling she allowed her hand to drift across her stomach, slipping her fingers under the elasticated waistband of her pyjama bottoms to gently massage and draw soft circles.

John’s call, telling her that he wouldn’t be home until the early hours, had come as an unwelcome piece of news, but deep down she had known it was coming. John had been too keen to go and help Sherlock, and no matter how much he protested Mary was sure he didn’t actually realise how much his body language screamed ‘want’ whenever the bloody man’s name was mentioned, he was as oblivious as he was love-struck – and solidly in denial.

Sitting down to a lonely dinner again had done nothing to ease the worry in the back of her mind – she felt that inch by imperceptible inch she was losing him, losing John to his former lover, and the movement of her hand slowed to a stop as she imagined what that meant for her now. With a sigh she pulled John’s pillow towards her and wrapped herself around it, forcing her painful thoughts away, stilling her mind by force of will, until eventually she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

xXx

In his office, Mycroft was ploughing through his third pot of strong coffee, thoughtfully provided by Anthea, and carefully reading through the files on the MP’s that Sherlock had suggested were the actual focus of both the Yard’s kidnappings and the potential terror plot.

Looking at the clock on the wall he realised that it would soon be dawn. His brother and John must have been up most of the night stringing together the links between the kidnap victims, the Members of Parliament and the Bills to be discussed in the special hearing this evening. 

As he swallowed a gulp of too hot coffee he winced – and not only through the pain of burning his throat. He allowed his mind to wander from the matter at hand for just a moment as he considered. His little brother was either going to get his way and drive Mary Morstan from John’s life, or he was going to be hurt and broken in a way that Mycroft had no idea how to prevent or fix.

Mary Morstan.

Pulling out a draw in his desk he glanced down at the too thin file on John’s fiancée.  She had something to hide, of that he was sure, and she was good – far too good – at ensuring whatever it was remained hidden.

A frown creased his brow.  Was this tied in with the terrorist activity that he was so diligently chasing? She hardly looked like a terrorist, but then neither had Patty Hurst before she was ‘brainwashed’ by the Symbionese Liberation Army…

With a huff of frustration he slammed the drawer shut and returned to his study of the files –  John Watson’s love life would have to wait.

xXx

“John, stay.” Sherlock raised his hand as if to physically prevent the other man from leaving, but couldn’t quite bring himself to complete the action.

Looking down at the outstretched hand John’s stride faltered.

“I…Sherlock this…” He sighed. “I promised I’d get home as soon as I could. “Mary and I have the day off tomorrow, we’re supposed to be…”

“Your wedding.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, emotionless despite the seething turmoil in his stomach.

“She’s arranged to talk to the vicar at our local church.” John’s ears turned slightly pink. “We haven’t set a date or anything, she just wants to get an idea of what it’s likely to cost, and availability and the like.”

“And she decided to do this once I returned no doubt.”

“You scare her Sherlock – and to be honest at times you scare me – but I don’t think this was solely due to your return…”

“Oh John, gullible as ever…” Sherlock laughed, but it was the wrong thing to do – he realised as soon as he saw the change in his friend’s countenance.

“Yeah that’s right Sherlock, gullible!” John snarled. “Gullible enough to believe you when you said you loved me, gullible enough to believe that you trusted me, gullible enough…”

“John stop!” leaping up Sherlock grasped the smaller man’s shoulders and swooped down, claiming his lips in a searing kiss, effectively silencing him.

Struggling, John tried to break free, but Sherlock’s fingers just tightened, and he pushed him backwards until his back hit the wall, and he was held there by the slender strength of the taller man’s body.

A tremor rushed through John’s body, and as if his muscles had developed a will of their own he clutched at Sherlock’s waist, grinding his hips up to increase sensation.

Coming up momentarily for air, Sherlock breathed John’s name on a sigh, his breath hot against the other’s ear.

“Sherlock, no.”

“John, yes.” The younger man smirked into the short blond hair. “Your mouth may be saying one thing – but your body is calling it a liar!” Feverishly he pulled at John’s jumper, sliding his hands under John’s shirt and t-shirt.

Fingers entwined in dark curls as John lost himself in Sherlock’s lips, kissing with an intensity neither man had experienced since the days before Moriarty and St Bart’s.

Touching and tasting, they traversed the short distance from the living room to the bedroom, their bodies falling into old rhythms as they followed what was once a well-trodden path.

The feel of the bed against the back of his knees suddenly brought John to his senses, and as he fell backwards onto the mattress his eyes snapped open and his hands shot out, deflecting the weight of his once-lover as he tried to press down on top of him.

“Fuck it, Sherlock, no!” He practically yelled, scrambling out from under the other man, standing and shoving his shirt back into his trousers, pulling his jumper straight.

“But John….”

“Don’t do this Sherlock.” John backed rapidly out of the room. “Please…”

And with a last despairing look at the stunned man on the bed he turned and fled, his feet pounding down the stairs as if all the hounds of Hell were chasing him.


	7. Undo This Hurt That You Caused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - I didn't realise that I hadn't posted this chapter! So sorry!! There is another one to follow....

John ran. Ran until he was far enough away from 221B Baker Street to feel able to stop and take a breather.

He looked around hopefully for a black cab, but instead he found a sleek black car pulling into the kerbside.

“Mycroft can…” he started, but Anthea held up a hand.

“He didn’t send me Dr Watson, I think your message was received loud and clear.” She gestured to the car. “You won’t find a taxi around here at this time in the morning, let me at least take you home.”

She smiled as John took a step back.

“Really Dr Watson, afraid of a mere woman?”

“No one could ever call _you_ a ‘mere woman’” the ex-soldier muttered as he gave in and climbed into the spacious rear seat.

Climbing in beside him, Anthea put her head down and started tapping away on her Blackberry, letting the silence settle around them as they made the short journey to Islington, and as they pulled up outside John and Mary’s house she smiled at the stunned expression on John’s face.

“Like I said Dr Watson, I simply wanted to offer you a lift home.”

John muttered his thanks and pulled himself out of the car, watching as it disappeared silently along the road, then turned and slipped his key in the lock.

 He looked around the living room, then headed through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Due to the amount of information they had uncovered about the kidnap victims and their political links he was home far later than he had planned to be. Hopefully Mary was asleep, because right now all he wanted to do was think about what had happened back at Baker Street.

xXx

Mary woke early, the empty space beside her telling its own tale. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she sat for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning around her. As her hands clutched the edge of the mattress she swallowed hard, forcing back the bile rising in her throat as fear churned in her stomach.

A soft snuffling snore whispered up from the living room and instantly Mary relaxed, a small smile tilting her lips as she pulled on her dressing gown and crept downstairs.

John was in his armchair, legs sprawled out in front of him, his head tipped back and resting against the wing of the chair, his mouth hung slightly open. A cup of cold tea sat on the table at his elbow, and a plate with toast crumbs stood beside it.

Mary shook her head as another snorting snore rumbled forth, and John’s nose twitched endearingly. She bent down.

“You’re snoring.” She whispered in his ear, her breath tickling as she laughed softly.

“What…?” John blinked owlishly up at her, then groaned as his neck creaked and muscles complained at the uncomfortable way he had mistreated them.

“Come on sleepyhead, you were snoring.” Dropping a light kiss on his nose Mary added “Do you want to go to bed for a while, or would you like a fresh cup of tea?”

With light fingers she traced a crease where his face had been pressed against the textured material.

“Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.” She quoted softly.

“No.” John shook his head, groaning theatrically. “Not Shakespeare at this ungodly hour!”

“Learn that from your posh ex, did you?” As soon as the words were out Mary wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. The grin that had started to stretch across John’s face fell away, and he took on a shuttered expression.

“Studied Shakespeare for my A Levels, and some things just seem to stick.”

“John I…”

“Whenever Sherlock called me an idiot, it was never about his superior education – it was about my inability to observe.” He stood, his blue eyes avoiding making contact with her. “You really have no need to keep attacking him the way you do, it’s not as if I’ve moved back in with him.” Rubbing his hands over his face John stepped around his fiancée and, grabbing his mug, he strolled out towards the kitchen. “I made you a promise Mary, and I have given you no cause not to trust me.”

If he had looked over his shoulder at that moment John would have seen a look of relief cross Mary’s face, tempered with a hefty dose of disbelief. She acknowledged that he was right, he’d given her no cause to doubt him, but Sherlock was another matter – Sherlock, she was sure, would fight her at every opportunity to get John back. She knew she would have to be careful what she said in future, and more to the point, Mary knew that she needed to put her plan into action now to counter any action that the consulting detective might take.

With that in mind she followed John into the kitchen and, side by side, they started to prepare breakfast.

xXx  

London has of late become a city that never entirely shuts down.

The same could be said for a certain minor government official, and the morning of Wednesday 5th November found him looking a little frayed around the edges, sleep deprived but unwilling to give in while he was so close to an answer.

The information from his brother – that the link between the kidnap victims was their Members of Parliament – was just the first breakthrough. Trying now to find out what had been said or threatened was proving considerably more difficult that it should have done.

Those MP’s that he managed to speak to were adamant that nothing untoward had happened, and that yes, they had always intended to attend the special session of parliament. Others had well trained personal assistants, or simply took steps to make it hard to track them down. Regardless, he couldn’t very well call a halt to the session, not without evidence of terrorist intent, yet none could be found.

Ever since he had identified Parliament as the target he had security staff searching every nook and cranny, and another team searching everyone coming in and going out – no-one was exempt, not even the Prime Minister.

He picked up his phone, dialling a well-known number.

“What now, Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s voice sounded harsh his breath rasping in his throat as he spoke.

Mycroft smirked.

“Did I catch you at an inconvenient time, brother mine?”

“Anytime you catch me is inconvenient, but not in the way you think.” He stifled a sigh. “What is it that you want?”

“I had hoped,” Mycroft said smoothly, “that you would have some more information for me on the terrorist threat. Time is running out…”

“Your people have scoured every inch of the houses of Parliament, searched everyone going in or out, and furthermore you have the surrounding streets under intense surveillance. I can do nothing more for you, if you can’t find him with all your resources, no-one can.” As he talked Sherlock glided in and out of the north London traffic, earning himself glares from some drivers, the claxon clamour of car horns from others. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have a case of a missing commuter to deal with – goodbye Mycroft.” And he punched the call end button.

Glaring at the receiver in his hand, Mycroft bit back an angry mutter and turned back to the reports in front of him – the answer must be there somewhere.

xXx

For several long seconds after ending the call, Sherlock stood on the pavement outside the small block of flats pushing all thoughts of Parliament and terrorists out of his head. He was being honest when he said that if Mycroft’s vast resources hadn’t been able to track down the perpetrator then no-one could, and he wasn’t going to worry about that anyway, because at least with the measures in place no-one was about to blow up the Houses of Parliament, they would be unable to smuggle a bomb in through the strict security.

Now his thoughts turned to Howard Shilcott and his mysteriously missing late night commuter…

“Oh. Mr Holmes! You’ve decided to take my case then?” Shilcott shuffled his large frame backwards, inviting Sherlock into his home.

The flat was filled with all kinds of railway memorabilia, even the door bell had sounded like a London Underground announcement.

Sherlock glanced around, taking in every detail in seconds.

“Yes well, it seemed intriguing enough – not every day you have someone disappear into thin air from a tube carriage…”

“Car.”

“Pardon?”

“They’re called ‘cars’ Mr Holmes, legacy from the days of American involvement with the system.”

Sherlock nodded, filing that piece of information in the general store of his mind palace.

“And how is it that you remember this occurrence so clearly? You said when you visited me that this man had disappeared not just late one night, but specifically from the last train on Friday night, having boarded the train at…”

“Westminster, last carriage yes, and by the next stop he was gone!” Shilcott’s voice rose in excitement.

“Quite.” Sherlock’s dampening tone “But you remember it most particularly – why?”

Wide eyed at the other man’s tone, Howard Shilcott stared for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Anytime soon will do.”

“Well Mr Holmes, I… I…” he stopped, took a deep breath, then rushed on “I work on the Underground…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“…and one of my jobs is to wipe the security tapes when they’re finished with. They let me bring them home to do, they know I like…”

“Trains yes, I understand that.” Irritably, Sherlock glared at the man.

“Look, let me show you.” Howard turned to his computer, his bulk shifting remarkably quickly as he sat in his chair, his fingers flying over the keyboard with the confidence of one who knows exactly what he’s doing. The screen came alive.

“Here he is, this is probably clearer than the disc I left with you, he gets into the last carriage.” The view changed showing the next station, St James Park. “The train took ten minutes to reach the station, when it should have taken just five, but there is nowhere he could have gone to even if he could get off without alerting the driver.”

“And what does the driver have to say?”

“Ah,” Shilcott smiled a smug smile. “Well might you ask Mr Holmes. Apparently he came into some money and has gone off on holiday. He hasn’t been seen since he finished his shift that night.”

Sherlock’s interest sharpened as he leaned forward and looked at the screen. There was something familiar about man who had disappeared.

“Can you send me this footage? As you say, it’s clearer than the disc you left me.”

“What will you do?”

“Get back to you if I need to.” And with that Sherlock turned and strode from the flat, closing the door quietly behind him.

xXx

It was, quite literally, a light-bulb moment that had Sherlock moving from his statue-like position on the couch to sitting up and reaching for his phone.

It would seem that in a room in his mind palace was an exact replica of the Houses of Parliament, with MP’s swarming around like ants, rushing from meeting to lunch to meeting in an endless dance trying to justify their living. Unlike the real seat of government though, each member had his name emblazoned on a banner above his or her head, and the man that Sherlock had failed to conclusively recognise was not only one of those Parliamentary ants, but his name was flashing as if to attract the consulting detective’s attention. The Minister for Overseas Development - Lord Moran.

Mycroft answered on the first ring.

“Changed your mind brother dear?” there was a thread of desperation in his voice that only Sherlock would know him well enough to notice, and the younger Holmes brother smirked into his phone.

“Not exactly, why? Getting worried?”

“Then don’t waste my time…”

“I can tell you however, that my missing commuter is none other than Lord Moran.”

Silence greeted Sherlock’s statement, and he could almost hear the cogs of Mycroft’s brain turning, working through the connotations of his words.

“I can also give you a little clue to another puzzle that you’ve been working on.”

“And that is?” Mycroft was only half listening, his fingers typing the name into his computer.

“Well, you might like to ask yourself what possible job Mary Morstan could have had that required her to recognise a skip code. Have a good afternoon… Brother.”

Still smiling to himself Sherlock then dialled John’s phone. As soon it was answered he didn’t give his former partner a chance to speak.

“John, I know you’re angry with me but hear me out.” He barely drew breath before continuing. “I think I have leads on three cases that are looking distinctly as if they are connected.”

There was an ominous silence at the other end of the call. Sherlock waited. Eventually the sound of indrawn breath could be heard.

“Why are you telling me this Sherlock?”

“Because…” Sherlock paused. What he wanted to say was ‘Because I need you… because I want you… because without you there is no thrill to the chase…

Instead he sighed and continued “Because I believe that it will lead to the person that put you in the bonfire. You would like to see them caught, wouldn’t you?”

Again that silence, only this time it stretched Sherlock’s nerves almost to breaking point. He thought he could almost hear John breathing softly in the background, but there was nothing else, no response, just static and silence.

“Are you…”

“Do you…”

After an interminable time they both spoke at once and John’s huff of laughter eased the tension as he continued.

“Do you really think you’ll catch him?”

“I wouldn’t have called you otherwise John, after last night I’m sure I’m the last person on earth…”

“No.” John sighed heavily. “No, you’re not.”

“Then you’ll come over?”

There was a pause, and Sherlock could visualise John checking his watch.

“Be there in an hour, okay?”

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Sherlock set about organising the threads of evidence before powering up his laptop.

 

 


	8. Uncry These Tears

Mary sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. She was not, however, daydreaming, or lost in a world of her own. She was considering her next steps.

 The look on John’s face as he left to meet with Sherlock was one of grim determination, and she hoped the conversation they had had earlier in the day wouldn’t distract him – she didn’t want to give Sherlock the opportunity to ‘deduce’ them both, it made her uncomfortable and highlighted how close the two men had been, he knew John almost better than the doctor knew himself.

And so now that she had started the ball rolling, it was beholden upon her to ensure that no mistakes were made – too much depended on her success.

xXx

If John looked a little perturbed when he arrived at the Baker Street flat Sherlock wisely refrained from commenting, he knew it wouldn’t take much to lose John’s valuable help and his welcome presence. Instead he gestured to towards the kitchen in mute request to make tea while he outlined what he has learned so far.

John listened as he pottered around, not noticing how Sherlock sometimes paused mid-sentence while he watched the other man moving about. With mugs of tea finally made, John joined the younger man at the wall where the clues were written, pinned, crossed through and, to John’s eyes as wonderful as a welcome home banner. He never realised how much he had missed the organised chaos of Sherlock’s mind manifested in post-it notes, string and writing on maps and photographs.

Sherlock took a step back and sipped his tea.

“So you can see why I believe there must be a link between the missing commuter and the terrorist threat.”

“And what do you propose we do about it?”

Sherlock didn’t miss the ‘we’ in that question, and smiled to himself; it was a start, a move back towards… he pulled himself up. John was looking at him with a puzzled expression, waiting for an answer. He turned away to open his laptop.

“I need our friend Mr Shilcott to send us information.” He gestured to John to sit down at the computer.

John grinned – some things never changed. Sherlock would huff and tut about his lack of typing skills, yet the git was still too lazy to do it himself. Still, he had in coming here agreed to help, and if that meant being his secretary then so be it.

To all intents and purposes Howard Shilcott seemed to have been waiting for their email, because within minutes he had supplied a map of the London underground with a faint map of London itself overlaid, showing where each tunnel travelled under streets and buildings.

Poring over these images Sherlock and John couldn’t see where the missing Lord Moran could possibly have gone

 “There’s something I’m missing.” Sherlock grumbled as he paced away from the screen then back again, his fingers pressed against his lips and his eyes unfocussed.

“Old line.” John said conversationally.

“What?”

“The District Line. It’s old, at least, the part of it that runs as part of the Circle and District lines – it was one of the first lines to open in the middle of the Victorian era.”

Sherlock frowned. “How…”

“Oh believe me; you’ve never been bored until you’ve been stuck on a tube train outside of a station for twenty minutes in rush hour…you’ll read anything and everything to try to stave off murderous impulses.” John shook his head. “They had a whole series of ‘History of the London Underground’ posters – I picked it up from there.” ‘And never deleted it’ he added to himself.

“Quick! Send Shilcott another email – I need any old historical information he can give us!”

“You do?”

“Obvious John, if there is an old disused station between Westminster and St James Park, then the delay in reaching the latter could be…”

“Due to it stopping long enough for him to get off. Right.” John opened up a message and started typing. With it sent, he reached for his mobile.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting Mary know I’ll be late – I had said I’d probably be home for dinner but this isn’t a quick fix is it? We won’t sort this in an hour or two.” Running a hand over his face John looked up into his former lover’s eyes. “I owe it to her to at least not make her worry when I don’t turn up as expected. Since the bonfire she’s been justifiably jumpy if I’m late home and haven’t phoned to let her know.”

“Oh.”

John frowned at the odd expression on the other man’s face.

“And last night…”

“And last night I had told her I expected to be late, however she knows nothing of what happened – I plan to keep it that way because nothing actually _did_ happen, did it Sherlock?”

“No.” Sherlock sounded subdued as he turned away from those quizzing blue eyes.

Sherlock pretended not to listen in as John made a call to his fiancée. For his part, John tried to keep his voice low – not because he was under any illusion that Sherlock would allow him the privacy he deserved, but more because last night Sherlock had admitted that he still loved him, and it wasn’t in the doctor’s nature to rub salt into wounds like that.

It wasn’t a comfortable call, Mary was obviously upset, and John knew that his reasoning – that they hoped to catch the bastard that tried to turn him into Guy Fawkes – was weak at best, while at worst it just sounded desperate. In a wretched whisper he pleaded with her for understanding, citing her safety too as a driving factor – he couldn’t, he said, lose her now.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat Sherlock had to put on an Oscar winning performance when John finally finished his call – the words he had overheard seemed to be the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. So he pasted on his most work-distracted expression and stared hard at the images on his laptop screen.

“Ah John, Mary happy with you staying out a bit longer?” He tried, but couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Don’t Sherlock. You can hardly blame her for worrying, after all since you returned not only has someone tried to kill me, but I’ve spent more of my spare time helping you than at home with her. She’s my fiancée Sherlock,” He sighed. “And like it or not she will be my wife.”

The younger man bit his lip and nodded, yet he didn’t apologise and John didn’t expect him to.

Pushing feelings aside, both men set to studying the information that Shilcott had emailed through. There seemed to be endless amounts of information, yet all of it was totally useless. It didn’t matter how hard they looked they were no further forward in finding the answer they were looking for, and time was running out.

Several calls from Mycroft had gone unanswered as Sherlock became more and more convinced that the key to this puzzle lay in the history of the underground.

“This,” he leapt up and waved to his wall of clues. “This is a collection of people who have, over the last week or so been somewhere or done something that is totally out of keeping with their normal routine. I’ve had the most trusted members of my homeless network watching them, reporting back…” his voice trailed off as he realised that mentioning the homeless network was probably not the most sensible considering the part they had played in his fake death, but John had either not heard him correctly or had chosen to let it pass. Instead he was staring at the pictures pinned to the wall.

“Who’s that?” He asked, pointing to another photograph that hadn’t been crossed through, one that was separate from all the others. It was a grainy picture, indistinct yet there was something familiar about it.

“Lord Moran” Sherlock said a little distractedly, pointing to the other unmarked picture sitting in the middle of his crime wall. “This one is a clearer. He’s the link – King Rat – and he’s our missing commuter.”

Sherlock moved to stand close to John, so close he was almost leaning against his shoulder, and he took a deep breath in through his nose, savouring the familiar scent that was purely John.

A small smile crept across John’s face. He knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, and he knew he should put a stop to it – move away and not encourage him, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to deny him something that was so necessary to his former lover, that had always been important to the younger man, the tactility of scent.

“Hang on!” suddenly John turned his head to look up at the other man. Their faces were so close they were almost breathing each other’s breaths. “Lord Moran? He links the other politicians, the ones whose industrialist constituents, he’s the portfolio holder that connects them all!”

“Yes he is.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So how does that change the game?”

“What is tonight’s special reading in Parliament?”

“A new Anti-terrorism Bill. There is something in it about clamping down on…”

“What?”

“John you’ve got it! You’ve hit the nail on the head – oh that is clever, that is very clever…” He stared back at the wall.

“What is? Come on, don’t start with the mysterious mutterings.”

“It’s so simple it’s beautiful.” Sherlock whirled to face John, grasping his arms. “The industrialists were threatened to put pressure on their Members of Parliament. If we had the time to check I’m sure we would find that these MP’s were all inclined to abstain from attending – the kidnappings were to ensure that they would be there.”

“With the idea of ensuring as near a full house as possible.” John frowned. “Why Lord Moran? What is the significance of his involvement?”

“He has overseas connections – supposedly impeccable diplomats. I think Mycroft needs to be checking those connections.” He pulled out his phone and sent a swift text.

John in the meantime returned to the computer and replayed the security tape. As it ran through for a third time he suddenly straightened in his chair.”

“Sherlock.”

“What? What have you seen?” the younger man was at his side instantly.

John smiled a small, half smile.

“It’s been in front of us all the time, watch.” And he rolled the film back to Westminster station then forward again to St James. “Do you see it?”

Sherlock frowned.

“No I can’t… _Oh!_ John you’re brilliant!”

He opened up a smaller screen within the screen and a Skype link to Howard Shilcott.

“Hello Mr Holmes.” The chubby smiling face filled the small area.

Sherlock dispensed with the niceties of greeting the man

 

“There must be an unused tunnel, a branch line, something! There were seven cars on that train when it pulled out of Westminster and only six when it arrived at St James. Your missing commuter didn’t get out Mr Shilcott, he wandered off with an entire car, and it must have gone somewhere because if it had just stayed on the District Line there would have been uproar in the press about the resulting collision.”

The train enthusiast looked stunned.

“That’s not possible.” He muttered, his head dipping as he looked through a selection of books and papers in front of him, the unedifying view of the top of his head bobbing about on the screen.

“Not an old abandoned station?” John asked

“No, there aren’t any unused stations in between but… hang on a minute.”

The sight of his back moving away from the screen became a view of his cramped and untidy room. Sherlock fidgeted impatiently.

“Here we are.” Shilcott’s voice got louder as he approached his desk, and then suddenly his excited face filled the small screen. “It’s not disused Mr Holmes, it was never used – as in never opened.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded

“It was a station called Sumatra Road. They built it, platform, tracks the lot, but there was some kind of dispute and they stopped. The station building itself, the bit above ground, was never built.” He waved an ancient map at the screen.”

“Can you scan that and send it to me?”

“I’ll do it now.”

xXx

It didn’t take Sherlock long to identify the quickest way to get into the tunnels leading to the unopened Sumatra Road station. He smirked a little at John’s complaints that they should be calling the police to evacuate parliament, or at least advising them of what was going on instead of breaking in to a maintenance tunnel.

“It’s illegal.” John pointed out.

“Just a bit.” Sherlock responded as he slipped through the metal gate.

Switching on their torches they moved away from the maintenance tunnel and along the unused track bed.

“Wait! Are these live?”

“Yes John, but we’re perfectly safe so long as we don’t actually touch the tracks.”

“Right.” John huffed. “Just don’t touch the tracks.”

Rounding a corner Sherlock stopped dead, John nearly running into him. The smaller man peered around his friend and there, some ten yards ahead of them was the empty underground car.

While Sherlock proceeded to move towards the stationary vehicle, John flicked his torch around the walls.

“Sherlock.” He hissed.

“What?” The taller man stopped and looked back.

John held his torch steady at a point on the ceiling.

“Up there.” He guided the other’s gaze. “Demolition charges.”

Sherlock nodded and carried on walking, climbing in through the unlinked connecting door and stepping into the dark and decidedly empty car.

“I thought we’d at least find a bomb down here.” John observed, climbing in behind him. “But there’s nothing here.”

Sherlock meanwhile had been studying the interior of the vehicle, his torch shining around the walls, his eyes missing nothing.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He said softly. “If that wire is what I think it is, then the entire compartment is the bomb.” He pointed up at a twist of red and black wires leading down behind a seat in the middle of the carriage.

Carefully lifting the seat Sherlock exposed a large, shiny, complicated looking bomb. Stepping softly past him John moved around to the other side. The glowing red counter read 2:30. It was ominously still, as if waiting for them to arrive.

xXx

In an anonymous hotel room, far away from the City of Westminster, Lord Moran opened a briefcase. Inside was an electronic detonator.

Taking a sip of champagne, Moran put a small key into a slot and turned it, then punching in a series of numbers he sat back and waited for news of the worst atrocity to hit London in years.

xXx

In the underground carriage the lights suddenly came on, and Sherlock and John looked down in horror as the timer started ticking down the seconds.

“Do something!”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, crouching beside the device.

“I don’t know – pull the wired out? Don’t you know what to do?”

“Why should I?” The younger man glanced up, genuinely puzzled.

“You know everything.” John practically spat back at him. “Go to that marvellous Mind Palace of yours; find out how to stop it.”

The clock continued counting down. Sherlock leapt to his feet and stalked away, then swung back to stare into John’s frightened eyes.

“I can’t.” he whispered. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

“But you must”

“John, you should go…”

“It’s a bit late for that Sherlock.” He looked down at the clock, 1:45. “You should have told the police.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” Crouching down once more beside the device Sherlock looked around it frantically, then back up at John. There were tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, John. Please forgive me.”

“No. No, this is some sort of trick. You’re just trying to get me to say something nice…”

Sherlock shook his head, the tears beginning to trickle down his face.

“No John. We have just over a minute, and I need your forgiveness… for everything.”

Blinking rapidly, John’s vision blurred, and he felt his stomach tighten.

“Of course I forgive you.” He said hoarsely. “You are the best, the wisest man I have ever known, and I have never stopped loving you.”

Closing his eyes, John waited for oblivion. It never came.

A strangely strangled sound, like a laugh trying to escape brought his head up and he opened his eyes. The clock had stopped at 1:28, the red digital display flickering slightly.

“Oh you should see your face.” Sherlock chuckled.

“You bastard!” clenching his fists at his sides John snarled “You knew how to stop it, you utter bastard.”

“All bombs have an off switch.” Sherlock swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks, removing the guilty tear stains. “Terrorists could get themselves into an awful lot of bother without a get out clause.”

He would have said more along those lines had he not noticed the tears flowing freely from John’s bright blue eyes. He frowned.

“I’m sorry John, I just needed to know that you still love me, and you said you do. You did mean it, didn’t you?”

John sniffed and swallowed.

“Yes Sherlock,” he said tiredly. “Yes I meant it. I never once stopped loving you – ever.”

The younger man smiled expectantly, only for his smile to fade as John shook his head.

“But it changes nothing Sherlock.” The blond doctor added. “It cannot. You see, I will still marry Mary because she is carrying my child.”


	9. Bring Back Some Joy to My Life

Sherlock was not sure how long he had been sitting in his chair staring at nothing, nor how many times Mrs Hudson had spoken to him before he heard her words and looked up into her worried face.

“Pardon?” he said, vaguely aware that she seemed to be waiting for some kind of answer.

His landlady sat in the chair opposite and looked at him with pity.

“I asked how long you’ve been sitting there in the dark, on your own, without so much as a fire lit in the grate.”

The young man frowned.

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Since the early hours of Thursday morning then, what of it?” Sherlock’s voice was dull, bored already with the conversation.

“Thursday? Sherlock, you must look after yourself better, how else will you win back…”

“That’s not going to happen.” Snapping his reply Sherlock went back to staring off into the distance.

Martha Hudson stared, shocked. She had been certain that she’d seen that spark back in both her boys’ eyes, but as she opened her mouth to speak Sherlock switched his cold gaze back to her.

“I’ll thank you to stay out of things of which you have no understanding Mrs Hudson; it’s much less painful for all involved.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Distress made the older woman’s voice sharp. “If you think…”

“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft’s soft tones interrupted from the doorway. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I should handle this from here.”

Flustered, Mrs Hudson rose and excused herself, leaving Sherlock to stare angrily at his older sibling. Mycroft however was unfazed.

“Sulking brother mine?”

“Piss off Mycroft. Haven’t you got a terrorist plot to foil?”

“Done. The last of the suspects are being rounded up as we speak.”

“Well good for you.” Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs, and tried to slip around his brother but Mycroft grabbed his arm.

“If you take a moment or two to stop feeling sorry for yourself, I have a puzzle that you might be interested in.”

“I’m not doing your dirty work Mycroft.” Staring pointedly at the hand on his arm Sherlock sidestepped, but his brother’s grip tightened.

“Not my dirty work Sherlock, John’s.”

Sherlock frowned.

“John’s fiancée is not the woman he thinks she is – you were already aware of that. What you maybe didn’t know is that there is no record of Miss Mary Morstan prior to her appearance in London just four weeks after you ‘died’.” He let go of Sherlock’s arm and walked slowly to the window. “She was working with John within a month of that, and she seems to have wormed her way into his affections in little over a year.”

“He forgot me so quickly?”

“Sherlock, you are not listening to me.” Mycroft stifled his irritation. “I was trying, as best as I could to make you understand that Mary Morstan – or whatever her real name is – took advantage of your partner when he was at his lowest. While my people were able to keep a watchful eye on him he refused all and any contact with me, and even if he hadn’t do you think he might have listened if I’d said that he shouldn’t get on with his life? I’m hardly his idea of a relationship counsellor.”

The younger man had to smother the twitch of his lips at the thought of his older brother dispensing marriage guidance and advice in his usual disdainful tones.

“Yes,” the Government man continued. “I’m glad you think it funny. However, what is not funny is the response I had from putting feelers out regarding your little snippet about skip codes.”

Withdrawing a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket he held it out. Sherlock couldn’t deny his interest was piqued. He took it and straightened it out. It was a grainy, poorly focussed CCTV image of a dark haired person wielding what looked to be a sniper’s rifle with a laser scope.

Sherlock squinted at the figure, turned slightly so that the face was square on to the camera, and with a jolt realised that there was something familiar about it. His gaze flicked to his brother and then back to the paper as he pulled his magnifying glass from his pocket and studied the picture more carefully.

“This is Mary.” He said eventually.

“It is.”

“Where?”

“You might remember a certain – shall we call it an event? – at the swimming pool where Carl Powers was murdered.”

“Mary was...?”

“From the position of the camera, as well as the other cameras that strategically placed around the pool,” Mycroft paused and gave his younger sibling a knowing look. “It would seem that Mary was the sniper with John in her sights.”

Dropping his gaze back to the picture Sherlock didn’t know whether to be relieved that he had a reason to fight to win John back, or worried that any precipitous move might put the doctor at risk.

As if reading his mind Mycroft spoke up.

“What you should be asking yourself is why, with Moriarty dead and gone, would she continue to keep John where she could see him? And what has changed to make her moved from would-be killer to would-be wife?”

“Pregnancy.” Sherlock said flatly, relishing the effect that one word had on his brother.

“Really?”

“So John tells me, and he is after all, a doctor.”

“So what do you intend to do about it?”

“The baby? Or the wedding?”

Mycroft smirked. “You can hardly undo the former, but you could stop the latter.”

Sherlock sighed. “John is far too honourable to condemn his child to life of a single parent child, even though the stigma holds little or no sway these days.” He flopped back down in his chair. “I need more data.”

“Anthea will have emailed you all the information we have to date; maybe you can see something in it that my people have missed.”

“That you have missed?”

“I have been busy with the terrorist threat. I haven’t had time to bother with your partner’s love life.”

xXx

John smiled as he handed Mary a plate of her favourite home-made fish pie – he had become quite an expert in cooking over the last two years and he never tired of showing off.

Mary on the other hand loved to be pampered. Her eyes shone with appreciation as she looked up at her fiancé.

“You’re spoiling me.” She said happily.

“You’re mine to spoil.” John replied taking a seat opposite her. “When is your first check up?”

“Monday morning.”

John’s smile faded slightly.

“I know you’ll be at the surgery, but it was the only available appointment. I’ll try to get the others to fit in with you if I can.”

“Hmmm.” John nodded, looking downcast and not entirely happy. “Who will you be seeing?”

“Oh, my usual doctor and the new midwife, I’ve not met her yet so I’m not sure of her name.” Mary ducked her head slightly so that she could look up into his eyes. “Come on, I know you want to do this but you know the GMC currently advocates that you don’t treat your family.”

“Well it’s not as if I’m likely to try and bump you off!” The doctor ejaculated indignantly. “For God’s sake, it’s not technically illegal.”

“No, but you are emotionally invested, and that never makes for impartiality.”

“Don’t quote GMC recommendations at me!” His good mood dissipating by the second John snapped a response, stabbing at his fish pie as if it had personally offended him.

“John!”

“No Mary, you sound as if you don’t want me involved…”

With a sigh and a patient smile Mary got up and moved her chair so that she was able to sit beside him.

“John that’s daft and you know it! Of course you’re involved, how can you not be? This baby is yours – there’s involvement for you!” She watched his face, but there was no lightening smile in response to her teasing words. “And as we get forward dates arranged then I’m sure you can make sure you have cover at the surgery and we can go together.”

With a half-hearted shrug John pointed his fork at her dinner.

“Eat up or they’ll think I’m neglecting you.” He said, a hint of a smile creeping back onto his face.

xXx

In an impressive and somewhat futuristic house on the edge of the Cotswolds a bespectacled business man was sitting in front of a large computer screen, smiling at his own thoughts as he read the information that streamed across his vision.

“So,” he thought to himself, “she has chosen to move in a totally different direction. I wonder if she realises how dangerous that is?”

Opening up a new tab he keyed in a short source code and watched as Mary Morstan’s desktop appeared in front of him. Reading through the folders that were neatly arranged to one side of the rather flattering picture of the lady herself with her arms around a man sporting the world’s most atrocious moustache he spotted the very thing he was looking for.

Simply headed ‘Wedding’, the folder when opened displayed a collection of sub-folders neatly laying out all aspects of the preparations.

“Mary, Mary,” he chuckled unpleasantly. “You cannot seriously think you will be allowed to do this? To walk away unscathed? Think again my dear.”

xXx

Sherlock put aside the information (scant though it was) that his brother had provided. Having read it he wanted to let the new knowledge meander around his mind in order to let the pertinent facts float to the surface. To this end he decided to relax and perform a few experiments, letting his hands and brain relax in the familiar movements and surroundings. 

Mid-way through a rather interesting piece of research involving an eyeball, its optic nerve and a blowtorch a movement caught Sherlock’s attention. John was standing just outside the kitchen door. Surprise made the younger man loosen his grip on his tweezers and the eyeball dropped – it landed with an ominous ‘plop’ into his mug of coffee.

“Oh.”

“Not disturbing you am I?” John asked a little awkwardly.

“I’m thinking.”

John’s amused blue gaze swept over the kitchen table, coming to rest on the floating orb gazing back at him.

“Looking at things in a different way?” He struggled to keep a straight face as Sherlock looked at him, perplexed.

“No, why should I?” the younger man picked up the mug and made as if to take a drink. John’s hand, gentle on his arm, stopped him.

“I wouldn’t Sherlock; dead eyeball is not a nice additive to your caffeine fix.”

A very fine shudder passed through Sherlock’s body as he looked at the hand resting against his bare forearm, and a warmth spread from his stomach up into his chest. He swallowed.

“What did you want?”

The words came out harsher than intended, and Sherlock winced internally, but John was well used to the other man’s idiosyncrasies, simply smiling in response and sitting down at the kitchen table.

“I’ve come to ask a very special favour of you.” He said a little hesitantly. Sherlock just looked at his friend expectantly. Blushing a little John continued. “Given the fact that Mary’s pregnant, she – well, _we_ – want to bring the date of the wedding forward, she doesn’t really want to be showing too much on the day.”

“Ashamed?” Sherlock could have bitten his tongue off as the damning word slipped out.

John took a breath, clinging desperately to his sanity.

“No, you dick! She doesn’t want to look like an elephant in the wedding photos.”

Sherlock’s lips formed a wordless ‘ _oh_ ’, and he stared intently at his friend.

“Right.” John laughed softly. “Now if you voice your previous opinion out loud in front of my fiancée, just remember that I know more ways to kill you painfully than types of ash on your website.”

He watched as Sherlock took a sip from his coffee, oblivious to the eyeball still floating in it.

“So, back to this favour. I want you to be my best man.”

“Best man? But surely that should be…”

John shook his head.

“Well how about…”

Again he received a negative response.

“But…”

“Face it Sherlock, you are my best friend – in many ways my only real friend regardless of the amount of times you’ve taken me for granted, or called me an idiot, and I want you at my side when I marry Mary.”

The silence following John’s declaration was palpable. Sherlock wore a pained, stunned expression and as the silence continued John’s smile faltered.

“Sherlock…?”

“I…um…” He took another gulp of eyeball coffee. “What does Mary say about this?”

The smile returned, and with it a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Took a lot of persuading I’ll have you know, and more than a few repetitions of the words ‘it’s the bridegroom’s only prerogative, to choose the man who stands at his side’, but I finally nailed it with my very last argument.”

“And that was?”

“That we wait to get married until she learned to love you like I do.” The words were out before John could stop them, and he stared wide-eyed at his former partner.

Sherlock stared back, his mind momentarily in freefall.

“You…”

“Please… Sherlock…” A painful red blush crept up to the tips of John’s ears. “Don’t make me say it…”

“Say what? That you used our former relationship to get your own way with your bride-to-be?”

John choked.

“No you tit!”

“Then what John? Don’t make you say what?”

“That despite everything, despite the fall, the two years silence, the engagement and even the baby, I still love you!” John rose to his feet and walked out of the kitchen and headed towards the front door, adding quietly as he left “Always have, always will.”


	10. Life is so Cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in writing this - I hope you enjoy!

If the week had started a little badly for Mary, with John still unhappy about not being available for her first ante-natal appointment, it got worse with the arrival of the mid-week post.

There were a great number of acceptances to the wedding, one or two declines, and that was to be expected given the fairly short notice, but amid the variety of response cards was a thick cream coloured envelope, superb quality, with very familiar calligraphic writing. Mary’s smile faded and her heart plummeted to her stomach as she carefully slit open the textured vellum, revealing a matching cream, gilt edged card.

_‘My dear Mary,_

_I’m so pleased to hear of your forthcoming nuptials, but saddened that you have forgotten to include me on your guest list._

_Rest assured though, my dear, I have certainly not forgotten you._

_Ever yours,_

_CAM_

xXx

Mrs Hudson believed she would never be surprised by anything that Sherlock might get up to, but as she carried up a tray containing a mug of coffee and a plate with a slice of his favourite cake she realised that maybe she had been mistaken.

The hall door leading into the kitchen was completely covered with a handful of black plastic sacks taped together, with a large hand-written ‘Do Not Enter’ sign on it. The sliding door that led from the living room to the kitchen was similarly covered, this time with a ‘Keep Out’ sign.

Odd humming sounds could be heard emanating from the room. Mrs Hudson put her tray on the coffee table and called out to her tenant.

“Don’t come in!” Came the immediate response.

“Well I wasn’t going to, seeing as how you have put up all these keep out signs!” Mrs Hudson replied tartly. “What are you up to in there?”

“Developing photographs.”

Well. That wasn’t what Martha Hudson expected to hear! After a moment or two she gathered her wits and asked “Have you taken up a new hobby?”

There was a rustling sound, as if someone was fighting their way out of a plastic bag, and suddenly Sherlock appeared, stepping through the smallest of gaps between door and doorframe before closing the door behind him.

“Hobby?” his voice was scathing. “No, I haven’t taken up a hobby – whatever gave you that idea?”

With a roll of her eyes the landlady indicated the blacked out room. Sherlock frowned.

“No no no! I need to develop these pictures myself if I am to convince John of the truth.” He threw himself into his chair and picked up the plate of cake, tucking into the sweet treat absent mindedly.

“I hope you washed your hands after playing with those chemicals.”

Sherlock ignored the comment and carried on eating. Mrs Hudson sat on the couch and looked at him.

“So,” she said after the silence had stretched beyond comfortable. “What truth? Are you printing photographs for John to prove your friendship? Because if you are, then you’re wasting your time.”

Turning his head towards his landlady, Sherlock glared.

“Of course not.”

“Good, because he doesn’t need fancy gifts as proof of your friendship – after all, didn’t he ask you to be his best man?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Well it proves that he still cares, even if he feels honour-bound to marry Mary because…”

“Shut up Mrs Hudson, you’re rambling.”

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“This has got nothing to do with friendship… well it has… just not how you think.”

“Do I want to know?”

Her tone made Sherlock smile.

“Actually Mrs Hudson, you probably don’t.”

xXx

“Are you ever going to give up kidnapping me?” John asked resignedly as he climbed into the back of the large black car.

Mycroft smiled that peculiar smile he reserved especially for John.

“Will you ever believe me when I say that I’m not kidnaping you?”

John looked at him. “No.”

Mycroft’s driver coughed suspiciously, but his boss ignored him and favoured John with a glare.

“To tell the truth…”

“Well that would be a first!”

“…I wanted to ask you about your wedding list.”

John’s jaw dropped.

“Really? Gifts or people?” he asked when his brain came back online.

“Why people of course.” Mycroft smirked

“Uh… Mary has the definitive list, maybe you should ask her?”

“John, don’t be awkward. If I wanted to ask your intended I would have done so.” The government official picked up a file that lay between them on the seat, opened it, and passed across a newspaper clipping. “Do you know this man?”

John puffed out his cheeks as he stared at the picture. The man in question was tall, well dressed, and sported a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. The look was topped off by gold wire-rimmed glasses.

“Can’t say he’s familiar – should he be?”

“I was under the impression that you kept up with current affairs Dr Watson. This is Charles Augustus Magnusson, business man, philanthropist, and one of the richest men in the country.”

“I keep up with politics.” John replied with a wry laugh. “After all, the government is trying to force new working conditions on junior doctors as well as planning to force us GP’s to work seven days a week – I’d be stupid not to keep abreast of their machinations, hm?”

“Quite.” Mycroft’s voice was as dry as the desert.

“So, this Magnusson bloke – what has he got to do with the guest list for my wedding? I sincerely doubt Mary knows anyone that rich and famous…”

“She does.”

“What?”

A haughty quirk of an eyebrow was Mycroft’s only response to John’s raised voice. The doctor cleared his throat, a flush of embarrassment tinting his cheeks.

“I’m sure I would know if my future wife had a friend on the Sunday Times Rich List.”

“I can assure you she does; maybe you’d like to ask her about him?”

Embarrassment turned to anger and John reached forward to rap on the privacy glass between them and the driver.

“Stop here – I want out now!”

The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror, and receiving a nod from his employer pulled smoothly into the kerb.

xXx

Normally Sherlock wouldn’t bother answering his phone while he was busy – after all, if they wanted him they would call back – but a quick glance at the screen showed it was John, and that was unusual enough to make him pick up. He’d barely said his name when John launched into his tirade.

“What the bloody hell is your brother’s problem? Why does he insist on sticking his bloody great nose into my life? The wanker is trying to tell me my fiancée rubs shoulders with rich philanthropists – I mean, I’d know if she had rich mates! Mary wouldn’t be able to resist teasing about it; you know what she’s like…”

“No, I don’t actually.”

“What? Oh, well you know what I mean anyway.” John seemed to have run out of steam, and he breathed heavily down the phone, waiting for Sherlock to say something. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Who is it?”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t be feeble John. Who is this rich friend that Mycroft is sure your… Mary… has?”

“Some bloke called Magnusson, Charles Augustus Magnusson – you know him?”

“Heard of him.” Sherlock stared at the batch of photographs in front of him. There in black and white was John’s Mary, sitting at a table outside a once fashionable French café with her back to a table where none other than Magnusson was drinking coffee. To the casual observer they were just two strangers at the same café, but to Sherlock’s experienced eye all the subtle nuances were there, the body language, the slight tilt of the head, it was all there. Magnusson was communicating and Mary was listening.

To what, he wondered.

“Sherlock? Are you still there?”

“Of course I am John.”

“Well? What about this Magnusson bloke? What does Mycroft think he’s playing at?”

“Oh he never play’s John.” Sherlock said softly. “Are you going to ask Mary?”

John groaned. “Not you too?”

“Will you?”

“Why are you both so keen that I ask my fiancée about what is probably a vague acquaintance from way back?”

“Because John, we want to know what she’ll say.”

xXx

Magnusson sat back and watched the television screen, replaying once more the shadowy scenes from both inside and outside the rather dilapidated municipal swimming pool where Moriarty had held John Watson hostage.

To the casual observer he appeared to be unmoved by the situation unfolding on the screen before him, but a closer look would have revealed the slowly creeping smile of a cat that had cornered a rather juicy mouse, a smile that was echoed in his hard pale eyes.

Slender fingers slid over the controls and the film froze, leaving the image of a dark clad assassin whose black balaclava did a poor job of disguising blond hair and hard killer’s eyes. Magnusson now smiled openly.

“So, Mary Morstan, I wonder what you will make of my little missive.”         

xXx

Mary flinched as the front door slammed. One glance at John’s face told her all she needed to know about her fiancé’s mood, his jaw was clenched so tight she feared for the state of his teeth.

“Dinner won’t be too long.” She called through from the kitchen. Silence greeted her, so she peered out of the kitchen.

John was sitting staring at his hands – never a good sign.

“Tea?”

“What…no…er, no thanks.”

“What’s wrong, bad day at the clinic?”

Without answering her question John looked up from his hands and into her face.

“Have you got any rich friends?” Even as the question left his lips John wished he could recall his words. He acknowledged – if only to himself – that he was playing once more to Sherlock and Mycroft’s whims, and that thought made him angry. How dare they make him doubt both his fiancée and his own judgement? Still, the question was out there, and John had to be honest with himself and admit he was interested to hear what she had to say.

Mary frowned down at him.

“John? Do we have money problems?”

John’s face was blank.

“No, should we have?” he asked.

“No – I mean…” Mary laughed, but it was a brittle sound. “I’m just a little confused as to why you’re asking about knowing rich people…”

“It was just something…”

“Just something what? Something that your posh ex used to have? Something that you miss having around?” Fear had made Mary careless – if she had been a bit more careful and thought about her words she could have brushed the whole thing off as unimportant. Foolishly however, she had brought Sherlock into the equation.

“You always do that don’t you?” John accused, leaping up and glaring at her. “Whenever you don’t want to answer a question, or when you feel the need to divert attention from yourself you make some smart-arsed remark about Sherlock!”

“I don’t!” Mary yelled back. “I just get sick of you bringing him into conversations…”

“ _Who_ brought him into the conversation? I think you’ll find you did that.” clenching his fists at his sides, John drew in a deep breath straightened his back and added in a slightly calmer voice. “Why must you always insult him, call him names? What has he ever done to hurt you?”

“He has you!” No sooner were the words out than Mary clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “No, John, please! I didn’t mean it.”

John shook his head and reached for his jacket.

“I’m going out, see if any of the lads are in town and up for a drink – don’t wait up.”

Mary watched, dead-eyed, as the front door slammed once more.

“I didn’t mean it.” She whispered again as tears slipped down her cheeks.

xXx

The Barley Mow in Dorset Street was crowded, loud and too close to Baker Street for John’s peace of mind.

None of the lads from the hospital rugby team had been keen to come out, and even Greg had been reluctant – work had been busy and he was looking forward to an early night – which left John with a bit of a dilemma, should he go home, drink alone, or go up to Sherlock’s flat and spend the evening trying to avoid the subject of Mary and Rich businessmen? The latter won out as the noise levels in the pub grew louder and John’s tolerance of such grew less.

The living room lights were on as he approached the door, and although both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson has insisted that he keep his keys in order to let himself in he still knocked, waiting for Mrs Hudson to let him in.

“Forgotten your keys?” she said with a roll of her eyes.

He blushed slightly, stammering an answer which (apparently) was exactly what she expected to hear as she smiled and flapped her hands at him, sending him up the familiar stairs to the flat.

“Sherlock?” John called tentatively as he opened the flat door, frowning at the black plastic taped everywhere. “You in the middle of a critical experiment?” He knew full well that Sherlock’s idea of ‘critical’ and his were two totally different things, but asked nonetheless.

“No, not at all John.” Sherlock’s head popped out of the living room, startling his friend momentarily. “Ignore the kitchen, I’ve yet to take down the covers, but the experiment has been cleared up.”

“Really?” A chuckle softened the comment as John walked through to the living room to see his friend scooping up a pile of photographs and piling a lot of plastic into a box. He grinned and looked closer. “Is that a box of old videos?”

“It was.” Sherlock hastily slammed a lid on the box and kicked it under the couch.

“Was?”

“Would you make tea please John?”

“Um…yeah.” John watched as the pile of photographs were shoved willy-nilly into a desk drawer before turning to fight his way through more plastic to get to the kettle.

After rinsing it out he filled it and switched it on, then took the time to look around. The kitchen was suspiciously clean and tidy, if a little empty of anything edible.

“When did you last eat?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Thought as much – fancy a take-away?”

“Who’s paying?”

John rolled his eyes. Despite having a regular job he was well aware that he was still significantly poorer than Sherlock, and this was no doubt the reason why – because the lanky git can always get someone else to pay. Still, he had originally planned to drink himself almost to oblivion, so he reckoned that the cost of a decent Indian meal evened things out.

“I’ll pay – you ring it through.”

Sherlock looked pained. John laughed.

“Okay, you win. I’ll pay _and_ ring it through, and when it gets here you –“ he pointed at his friend. “You can tell me about your recent experiments.”

They filled their time discussing Scotland Yard, the lack of decent criminals (John laughed, Sherlock cursed) and the state of the capital in general. John was just about to start on the state of the NHS and the latest government stupidities when the doorbell interrupted them and he ran lightly down the stairs.

Sherlock counted. Slowly. He got to seven before the proverbial shit hit the fan.

“Sherlock!” John yelled at the top of his voice as he took the stairs two at a time. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Ah, I see Mycroft has delivered our meal.”

“You mean you knew he’d turn up? What, did you plan this whole thing?” The doctor was fuming. The only thing stopping him from leaving was the elder Holmes sibling leaning, smiling, against the front door of the flat.

“Do sit down, won’t you John? This will be much easier to discuss if you cease to give the appearance of a…” he smirked a little “…rabbit in the headlights.”

“Rabbit… Headlights… !?!?!” If he was angry before, John was positively apoplectic now, and Mycroft would have been on the receiving end of John’s formidable left hook had Sherlock not intercepted the swing and, using the doctor’s strength against him dropped him into his armchair.

“John, you need to be reasonable…”

“Reasonable? This afternoon your brother kidnapped me, you suggest I ask Mary about her rich friend, and she accuses me of always bringing you into conversations…”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Bring me into the conversation.”

Poleaxed, John stared up at the younger man, then flicked his gaze to Mycroft and back again.

“No.” he said eventually. “No, I didn’t, she did. The same as she always does when she doesn’t want to…”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, Sherlock’s gaze remained fixed on John’s face, and the silence between them stretched.

“Why does she always do that?” John sounded strangely lost, as if suddenly realising his entire world was crumbling around him.

Sherlock held his friend’s gaze as he lowered himself into his leather armchair. If it hadn’t been so sad he would have thought it hilarious that Mycroft, who never did anything for anyone unless there was something in it for him, dished up Johns food and set it down on a tray on the coffee table.

But sad it was, because Sherlock had the sneakiest suspicion that having broken John’s heart once by jumping off the top of Bart’s, he was about to do so again by destroying the new life he had made for himself.

“Eat John.” Mycroft said quietly. “You shouldn’t be having this discussion on an empty stomach.”

“Not hungry.” John looked shell shocked, as if he knew something was coming that he would neither like nor want to hear.

Mycroft would have insisted but his younger brother signalled him to leave it.

In silence the Holmes brothers waited, until finally sniffed, sat up and gave Sherlock that sharp nod that meant he was ready to hear whatever they had to say.

Mycroft kicked off the conversation.

“John, because you have been a member of my family for a long time…” He paused and waited for the doctor to snarl a denial but the interruption never came, and so he carried on. “I was concerned that your fiancée, Miss Morstan, had an almost non-existent past, and so I asked Anthea to make enquiries, just to be sure.”

Still John said nothing, so Sherlock picked up the story.

“My interest was piqued when you were kidnapped. Mary had received two texts – both skip codes.”

“So?”

“So it was _Mary_ that identified them as skip codes, not me.”

“That led us to believe that at some point she had worked in an environment where secrecy was paramount.” added Mycroft as he finally took a seat on the couch. “But I couldn’t find her on the payroll of any of our allies.”

The next hour was spent explaining all the actions first Mycroft’s team, and then both brothers working together had taken before finally discovering the most damning piece of evidence.

“Moriarty was careless, he didn’t think to disable the old-fashioned CCTV from the pool where Carl Powers died, nor did he remove the old fashioned video recording that was running in a constant three hour loop.”

“Moriarty?” John seemed to reanimate a little at the mention of the Irishman. He turned and frowned at Mycroft. “I assume you took the tape?”

The government official nodded.

“It showed everything we expected it to show, a marksman in black wearing a balaclava, carrying a laser-sighted high powered rifle, but gave us no clue as to who he was or where he had come from.”

“And now you do.”

“Mycroft went back to studying the tapes recently, and then he passed them to me. He also passed some intelligence that he had received from the French police, some film taken about five years ago in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.” Sherlock rose and retrieved the photographs. “I spent this afternoon printing stills from the videos; I thought you would prefer that I did it rather than one of Mycroft’s minions.”

Shuffling them into order, he handed John the Parisian photographs and waited. For a moment or two the other man stared at the images before him, then looked first at Sherlock, then at his brother.

“This…” his voice came out hoarse so he cleared his throat and started again. “This is Magnusson.”

Mycroft nodded.

“And because Mary is sitting at the next table you assume she knows him?”

Sherlock leaned forward.

“John, you know me. I wouldn’t be showing this to you if I hadn’t studied the minutiae of both subjects’ body language. He may appear to be reading the newspaper, but look at his lips – he is obviously talking. Look at the way Mary looks as if she’s watching the world passing her table but the slight turn of her shoulders, the way she sits right back in her seat – she is listening.”

Deep blue eyes studied Sherlock’s earnest face, not wanting to believe yet unable to refute anything his friend had said. He could see what Sherlock saw; even now he could remember the younger man teaching him the subtle nuances of body language that gave themselves away in photographs.

“What else?”

“John I…”

“What else Sherlock? You wouldn’t mention Moriarty and the pool without good reason.”

Hesitantly he handed over the remaining photographs. The marksman - the image blown up to show in horrifying clarity the wisps of blond hair, the eyes, the obviously feminine figure. Sherlock watched as John swallowed several times, his breath stuttering as he tried to hold back a sob.

“I’m sorry John, but the ‘marksman’ that was prepared to kill you was Mary Morstan, your fiancée.”

xXx

Magnusson smiled coldly as his mobile phone vibrated on the desk. He picked it up and answered the call.

“They know.” A frantic female voice spoke without the courtesy of a greeting. “They know about me. I need your help!”

 

 

 


	11. Unbreak My Heart

Magnussen smiled at his guest, waving her into a comfortable seat. He waited, letting the silence stretch between them, but his visitor – despite her concerns – was made of sterner stuff and was not letting it faze her at all. Magnussen’s smile widened.

“Mary my dear, it has been a while, has it not?”

“The last time we met was when you told me you had sold my contract to James Moriarty – at a café in Saint-Germain-des-Prés if memory serves.”

“Ah yes, dear James. Such a shame he lost his head over Sherlock Holmes…” Laughing heartily at his own joke Magnussen leaned forward and patted Mary’s knee. “But I understand your time with him was… shall we say… enlightening?  After all, did he not introduce you to the man you are to marry?”

“I see your sense of humour hasn’t changed.” Mary said quietly. “You always did find your amusement in the suffering of others.”

“And yet here you are, back to your roots, so to speak.” All trace of humour faded. “Now, what can I do for you?”

xXx

John stared at the cold, congealed mess of Indian food still sitting on the plate in front of him.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft had at least had the decency to leave him to his thoughts, and eventually Mycroft had returned to his home, or his office – John didn’t really know or care. Sherlock slipped quietly back into the living room and lay down on the couch, eyes closed, fingertips pressed together under his chin, silent.

And John appreciated the silence, more so than ever he realised as he watched his life for the past year passing across his vision like a badly made film. Meeting Mary had seemed like a life saver, a gift he felt he wasn’t worthy of yet he had grasped it with both hands – and yet…

Then Sherlock came back into his life. Sherlock, who had spent so long trying to persuade John of his sincerity and love. Sherlock who, once John had acknowledged the truth and strength of his own feelings had given him his heart without question.

John could still feel the cold shock of Sherlock’s fall, his death and subsequent resurrection, and the conflict of knowing that their love was still there, as strong as ever, stronger than anything he thought he had felt for Mary.

“Mary” John said under his breath as he struggled to understand the news the Holmes brothers had delivered.

Sherlock lifted one eyelid a crack, seeing a shattered man as he quickly took in the pallor of his friend’s face, the lines of sadness and the blank, almost dead look in his eyes. All this he saw, yet he didn’t know how to solve this particular problem – the problem of making John Watson whole again.

xXx

In two separate buildings at opposite ends of London, two very different women sat poring over maps…

-O-

“I think we can safely assume that Miss Morstan boarded the tube at Caledonian Road, the CCTV there has been down for weeks.” Anthea’s well-manicured nail tapped against the dark blue line on the London Underground schematic. “With its usual flair for ineptitude Transport for London’s closed circuit cameras are badly maintained or broken, so they neither offer the safety they were intended for nor assistance in tracking individuals.”

“Have we any sightings at all?”

“One possible Sir, at Holborn underground.” She tapped the map again. “A woman answering Miss Morstan’s description was caught camera changing from the Piccadilly line to the Central line.”

Mycroft’s eyes roved over map.

“Contact TfL and ask for footage from both Bond Street and Swiss Cottage – if she has gone where I suspect she has gone, then she will travel to the latter via the former.”

“Magnussen?”

“I believe John’s questioning her about her acquaintances has forced her hand – just as I hoped it would – and she has returned to her original handler.” He picked up a manila folder and flipped it open, looking briefly at the grainy photographs of Mary Morstan and Charles Magnussen. “These unfortunately show that their association is long-standing.”

“Has Dr Watson seen them?” Anthea’s face was carefully neutral; despite their surface enmity she rather liked the army doctor.

“I don’t believe it will be necessary to use these to persuade him of the truth about his fiancée.”

And for that both Mycroft and Anthea were grateful…

-O-

Magnussen stood beside the table as Mary looked at the large-scale map of the City of Westminster and the London Borough of Camden. He watched as she chewed her lip, a habit she had when she was trying to absorb information.

“You see,” he said pointing to an area towards the top of Regents Park. “Your fiancé, as I’m sure you know, has a habit of walking when he needs to think…”

“You always did know your ‘subjects’ well.”

“That, my dear Mary, is why they have never been able to link me to anything other than my legitimate business ventures.” Magnussen’s smile was positively wolfish as he turned his attention back to the map. “Now, as I was saying, John likes to walk, and I happen to know that his meanderings often take him around the Outer Circle as far as the Zoo, and then he cuts up to Primrose Hill where he…thinks.”

“John does a lot of thinking.” Mary said dryly.

“It would seem he spent the evening thinking my dear, because shortly after you left home this morning he went back there –” here he turned and picked up a television remote and switched on a nearby screen, and as it flickered to life he continued “he didn’t waste any time, simply packed a bag and made his way back to Baker Street, and no doubt back into Holmes’ bed.”

“Don’t.” With an angry snarl Mary launched at the businessman, only to be rebuffed, her wrists held captive, her clawed nails forced away from his face. With a savage twist Magnussen turned her to face the screen, to watch the CCTV image of John leaving their home with a suitcase.

“Face it Mary, you have lost him already. Once Mycroft Holmes involved himself, and you can be sure that Sherlock’s older brother is behind all of this, it was only a matter of time before the good doctor’s mind was poisoned against you.”

Pushing her away Magnussen tapped a finger on the map.

“If you don’t want him chasing you down and having you arrested you will have to take action. Take him out of the picture – that was your original task wasn’t it? If Holmes lived then Watson must die?” Cold eyes focussed on her stunned face. “What? Did you think I was going to help you win him back? When I have a copy of your contract with Moriarty?”

“No!” The horror of her mistake was sinking in. “I want Sherlock out of the way – he’s the one who has caused these problems! With him dead I can…”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you kill him – that is a pleasure I want for myself, once I have him under my thumb…”

xXx

On his return from Islington John had taken his bag up to his old room and he was yet to return. Sherlock was not convinced that he was spending his time making the bed and putting his clothes away, but he couldn’t bring himself to go up and offer help or comfort, in fact he was sure that if he did he would drive John away, so he lay on the couch waiting…

Up in his old bedroom John was trying, without much success, to get his head around everything he had learned both on the previous evening and subsequently at the house he had shared with Mary.

Curiosity had been his downfall, as sentimentality had been hers. John had always been aware of the locked memory box that Mary kept in the bottom of her wardrobe, hidden from sight by pairs of shoes and matching handbags, by various boxes of bits and pieces, and his curiosity led him to take the box from its hiding place and put lock picking skills he had learnt from Sherlock to good use.

Inside John found a selection of ticket stubs from theatre productions and film premiers that they had attended together – the latter thanks to a grateful director whose life John had saved when he had a heart attack on the tube – and photographs of the pair of them taken at the last Practice Christmas party by the senior partner’s tipsy wife.

Under those he found the lock of his hair she had laughingly snipped off while he was waiting at the barber’s to get his ‘regulation’ haircut. It was tied with a piece of string that she found in the bottom of her handbag. The memory had brought tears to his eyes, and he almost abandoned his search, had it not been for the photographs that lay, face down, under the grey-shot hair.  With a little trepidation he took out the first and turned it over – and felt like he had been punched in the gut.

John found himself staring at a picture of himself standing sideways on beside a swimming pool, dressed in an oversized green parka jacket and looking up at something – or _someone_ – out of shot.

The next photograph was more sickening still. He was standing in the road, his mobile pressed to his ear, his arm outstretched as if imploring someone (again out of shot) to do, or not do something.  Through eyes blurry with unshed tears John recognised the background, was instantly transported back to the day he watched his lover fall from grace, and fall from the roof of Bart’s.

Blinking the moisture away John Watson, _Captain_ John Watson, brought his knowledge of firearms and covert ops to the forefront of his mind.  These photographs were taken using a gun mounted camera, giving a clear high density ‘shot’ of whatever the shooter could see through the gun-sight. The camera was most likely military issue, because unlike the ‘sporting’ gun cameras this one could take photographs independently of the trigger.

Most heart-breaking of all was the knowledge that not only had he now found irrefutable proof (as if the video stills had not been enough) that Mary had been the one to direct a laser sighted sniper rifle at him at the pool, but she had watched as his heart had been ripped from him that day in West Smithfield, prepared to kill him if Sherlock hadn’t jumped.

Soft tapping on his bedroom door brought John back to the present, and he looked down in surprise at the wet patched on the thighs of his jeans where his tears had flowed unnoticed and unchecked. Grabbing a tissue he quickly wiped his eyes and blew his nose before opening the door.

“I made you tea.” Sherlock said simply, his eyes noting the John’s weary, emotional state, and his brain reminding him that it would be a bit not good to mention it unless John did so first.

“Thanks.”

“I was planning on sending to Angelo’s for takeaway, do you want some?”

John frowned and looked at his watch – had he really been siting, lost in his thoughts, for so long that he hadn’t noticed that he had missed lunch and it was now almost dinner time?

“Um, yeah.” He said quietly. “Yeah, get me anything that you think would be good.”

Sherlock smiled.

“You love Angelo’s food John; to you _all_ of it is good.”

xXx

Sherlock held his peace as the two men sat at the kitchen table to eat. John had declined crap telly, saying he really wasn’t in the mood, and so the younger man, respecting his friend’s request, served up the food and then sat silently eating.

It struck him as strange, how he didn’t feel the need to take apart John’s feelings and broadcast them; it seemed he had learnt a lot from both his time spent with the other man and the time he spent alone afterwards – this was a new and improved Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure whether to be unhappy about it or pleased.

“She was on the roof.”

John’s voice startled Sherlock out of his reverie.

“At Bart’s.” Sherlock didn’t try to dissemble. “I’m not surprised.”

John’s eyebrow rose sharply, prompting the other man to explain.

“She was the sniper at the pool John; that means she knew her target and was trusted by Moriarty. As you are the most important person in my life it makes sense…”

“Yeah, I know. That doesn’t make the truth any harder to take.”

Sherlock nodded and continued to eat in silence, mulling over some information he had received, wondering whether or not to share it. He had forgotten that John had long ago perfected the art of knowing when there was something on his mind.

“You might as well tell me.” The blond doctor said quietly. “Knowing my pregnant fiancée was once employed to kill me is probably the worst news I could get, you couldn’t make it worse by telling me whatever it is you’re considering withholding.”

“I received a text from Mycroft. When Mary left the flat this morning she went, by quite a circuitous route, to Swiss Cottage.”

John stopped pushing his food around his plate and put his fork down, looking expectantly at his friend.

“One Charles Augustus Magnussen has his offices there, in a large house conversion. He owns the building, and stays there whenever he’s in London.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock waited, but it seemed John had nothing more to add, so he continued

“It took a while to get access to the CCTV evidence; apparently the link to their control room was down…”

“Someone’s head will roll for that.” John smiled weakly.

“No doubt.” Sherlock agreed. “As I was saying, the CCTV proved conclusively that she went to Magnussen – and she doesn’t appear to have left the building since.”

Pushing away his half eaten dinner John stood up, shrugging tiredly.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight Sherlock.”

The younger man watched as his friend wandered out of the kitchen.

“Goodnight John.” He replied softly.

xXx

Mary didn’t bother to question why Magnusson should have a stock of hair dyes of varying colours – the man, it seemed, was prepared for any eventuality. Choosing a shade of brown so dark that it was almost black she sat on the side of the bath in the guest suite and took the first steps to changing her appearance.

In a small back room, behind his main office, Charles Magnussen watched a bank of television screens. A flick of a switch brought the live feed back from the map room, and the final blank screen flickered before once again showing the street view at the front of Mary’s Islington house.

“I imagine Mycroft Holmes would be livid if he knew that he wasn’t the only person to have eyes on the whole of London.”

Magnussen turned around, his eyes travelling over the slim, black clad figure.

“I see you found your old clothes. I knew it was a good idea to keep them for you.”

“And of course, you have a reason for me to be ‘dressed to kill’” Mary’s joke was in poor taste, but neither party seemed to acknowledge it.

Instead Magnussen held out a set of car keys.

“You know where to wait. The choice is yours – up close and personal, or from a distance. We both know he will eventually go there, if not tonight, then tomorrow, the day after, and you will be ready for him.”

“My guns?”

“Are under the front passenger seat, as always.”

Mary nodded and took the keys. There was nothing more to be said. Letting herself out of the back entrance of the building she moved quietly through the late evening streets to the small and unassuming black Ford Fiesta. The lights flashed twice as she unlocked it and she climbed in, her hand automatically going to the slim case stashed away, out of sight.

A quick check of the street showed Mary that there was no one in sight, and so she deftly undid the locks and opened the case. A sniper rifle, broken down to its bare components – lock, stock and barrel – along with a laser scope and scope-mounted camera took up most of the room. Beside it sat a handgun – plastic – lightweight yet deadly. Mary had favoured the Glock 18 since she had first learned to shoot, and as she looked at the gun she decided that this was her weapon of choice for this job.

The decision made, she started the engine and slipped the car into gear. As she drove past the front of the building she smiled – Mycroft really should train his people better. The one watching Magnussen’s office stood out like a sore thumb.

xXx

Kicking back the duvet John sat up.  Sleep was elusive, and as he glanced at the clock – 2.30am – he realised that he couldn’t lay in bed any longer. Bone-weary his body may have been, but his mind was replaying the past two days as if stuck on a loop.

Pushing up from the bed he reached for his clothes, and once dressed he padded quietly downstairs. Peering into the living room he half expected Sherlock to be there, but all was silent and empty.

Relieved, John sat on the couch to put on his shoes and then, grabbing his coat he headed softly out of the flat and out onto the street.

Seconds later a silent figure dressed in black emerged from a side street, and keeping a reasonable distance between them followed the blond doctor as he headed for the Outer Circle of Regents Park.

It was fortunate for John that there was not a lot of traffic on the roads as he seemed to walk in a daze, barely conscious of the world around him, his mind on the woman he had thought he could love and trust.

He had always known his feelings for her paled in comparison to those he had – and still felt – for Sherlock, in the same way that he had known that having made the commitment to marry her, especially with the child she now bore, he would have hidden his heartbreak and done the honourable thing.

That thought alone brought a grim smile to his lips. Honourable? What was so honourable about a loveless marriage? What was honourable about breaking Sherlock’s heart as well as his own? With a shake of his head he pushed that particular thought away, because now he knew there was no way he could marry Mary no matter what.

And all the while this was going through his mind, his shadow stayed behind him, out of plain sight but there nonetheless, watching his every move, dogging his every footstep.

John’s route was a well-trodden route, he didn’t have to think about where he was going, he was content to let his feet carry him along the road to Primrose hill, and there to climb the steep path to the vantage point at the top, where he could stare out at the multitude of streetlights patterning London, and try to empty his mind.

Unfortunately this caused his shadow something of a problem. Once on the path to the top of the hill John would be able to see that he was being followed, and so on light feet the figure in black hurried across to the shadow of the trees, from here it should be possible to stay relatively close without being seen.

John didn’t know how long he had been sitting on the bench when a voice from behind him broke into his thoughts.

“John.”

He leapt up and turned around.

“Mary?” Quickly he noted that she had dyed her hair, that she was dressed from head to toe in black, and he almost laughed out loud – she looked like one of the ninja’s that he and Sherlock had pretended to be once, for a case, what seemed like a lifetime ago. He saw the dull glint of the gun in her hand and he nodded. “I assume you are here to finish the job you started back at the pool?”

“John, I’m sorry. I do love you, truly I do, but you have to understand that my safety, my anonymity has been compromised, and if I’m to survive…”

“Then I have to die.” John’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“I’ve never been a coward John, but I would ask one last thing from you.”

John raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“Would you turn around? Sit down as you were before, so that I don’t have to see the condemnation in your eyes.”

“No.”

Mary was unsurprised.

“So be it then…”

“Mary Morstan!” Sherlock’s voice called as he strode from the shelter of the trees. “I cannot allow you to do this.”

Mary sneered. “You can’t stop me you fool! Only now I’ll take you both out, despite what Magnussen may want…” She glanced at Sherlock’s expression. “Oh, didn’t you know? He wants to control you and then to kill you. I would have settled for killing you and trying to win John back…”

“Never!” John interjected.

“Then do it – if you can.” Sherlock sneered right back at her, his voice overriding anything else John might have said.

Mary drew a steadying breath and turned to aim the Glock at Sherlock’s chest. There was a loud crack of gunfire, and with a startled expression Mary sank to the ground, a neat round hole in the middle of her forehead.

John stood silent and still, his Sig held steady in his right hand, still aimed at the figure on the floor even though he knew she was already dead. Without a word Sherlock crossed to the where Mary lay and picked up her gun.

“John?”

There was no response as the ex-army doctor stared at the trickle of blood running across his fiancée’s forehead, so Sherlock turned instead to his mobile.

“Where are you?” Mycroft’s voice answered at the first ring.

“Primrose Hill. Mary’s dead.”

“You?”

“No, John. Protect him Mycroft.”

“Don’t worry little brother, I will. My team will be with you within half an hour, do you think John will be alright staying with you?”

“I’ll make sure he is.” Sherlock responded quietly before cutting the call. He turned then back to John. “Are you alright.”

“Of course I’m not bloody alright!” John exploded, as if suddenly coming to life to face this scene of horror. “I’ve just killed the woman who is carrying my child – how the fuck can I be alright?”

And as suddenly as it had come John’s anger fled and he collapsed to his knees with a keening wail.

“I’ve just killed my own child.” He sobbed as Sherlock knelt beside him and wrapped him in his arms. “What kind of monster am I?”

“Not a monster John, never a monster. You did what you did to save my life.” He tightened his hold on his former lover. “She would have killed me without a second thought, and then…”

“And then she would have killed me.” With shaking voice John completed Sherlock’s sentence, adding “Better that than an innocent child.”

There was no answer that Sherlock could give to that, he didn’t even try, opting to just stay by John’s side until Mycroft’s clean-up team arrived to take the body away.

Unsurprisingly, an anonymous looking black car also pulled up outside the gates to the parkland and Anthea stepped out, holding the door open for Sherlock and John.  Sherlock nodded his thanks which she acknowledged with a small smile before closing the door and climbing into the front passenger seat.

xXx

The journey home had been made in silence, and without fuss Sherlock led John up to the flat, staying at the bottom of the stairs as the blond doctor made his way up to his bedroom. Once he had heard the bedroom door close he walked into the living room and pulled out his phone.

“What next?” Sherlock didn’t give his brother a chance to speak before asking his question.

“There will be a post-mortem, performed by a trusted Pathologist.”

“Molly?”

“Yes, I had thought Dr Hooper would be the best person to do this – after all, you made her an integral part of this when you asked her to help cover up your fake suicide.”

“What about Lestrade?”

“What about him?”

Sherlock sighed. “He is a friend of Johns; he will need to know about Mary.”

“I will ensure he is made aware.”

“Thank you.”

“Really brother?” Mycroft sounded more smug than sarcastic. “I hardly dared hope…”

“Then don’t. Goodnight Mycroft.”

Putting his phone away Sherlock removed his coat, retrieving John’s gun from the pocket before flinging it over the back of a chair, then he flopped onto the couch, the gun still in his hand. It wasn’t that he thought John might try to blow his own brains out – at least that’s what he told himself – he was more concerned that Mycroft, or even Lestrade, might have wanted to take it as evidence, and he knew that John would prefer not to be separated from his last tangible link to his past. And if he were to hide it away for a while, then at least John had a chance to think things through, to realise that life has to go on.

He was still lying on the couch some hours later when John’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“That’s still loaded Sherlock, and the safety’s off – be careful.”

“Always.” Grey/blue eyes stared up at the tousled blond hair. “Did you manage to get some sleep?”

“A little.” John replied. “More than you I’d guess.”

The silence hung for a moment, and then

“What happens now? I assume Mycroft is cleaning up this whole mess?”

“He’ll keep us informed; make sure the necessary paperwork is done. There’ll be no comeback on you.” Sherlock wasn’t too sure why he had omitted the information about the post-mortem.

“I should be charged.”

“Don’t be an idiot John, it was clearly self-defence.”

“Then why aren’t we trusting the British justice system to see that?” John knew he should feel angry at Sherlock’s words, angry that once more Mycroft Holmes was interfering in his life, but he just felt numb.

“Tea?”

“Are you making?”

“Like I said John, don’t be an idiot.”

“I thought you hated to repeat yourself.” Turning towards the kitchen John went through the motion, filling the kettle, pulling out mugs and tea bags, amazingly there was a fresh bottle of milk in the fridge. From behind him he could hear the creak of furniture as Sherlock got up to follow him.

“I need to get the rest of my stuff…”

“Not right now.” Sherlock sat down at the table, watching John move around the kitchen. “I won’t suggest you leave it to Mycroft, or Anthea, but I will suggest you take a few days to…”

“To what, Sherlock? To get over it? Is that what you think happens next, that I just carry on as if nothing happened? Because I can tell you now…”

Sherlock leapt to his feet and banged his fist on the table. “Stop it John!” he yelled over his friend’s ranting. “Just stop. No I don’t expect you to just carry on – I don’t expect anything at all from you, except that you might let me help, in any way that I can.”

John turned his back and closed his eyes, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, it’s just all too…too…”

“Too fresh, too soon, I know.” Walking around the table Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Just don’t push me away, please.”

Nodding John turned and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, feeling the other man’s arms enfold him, his lips placing a soft, comforting kiss on the top of his head and strangely, John felt at peace.

xXx

The sound of voices talking low in the kitchen woke John. A quick glance at the window showed that it was late afternoon, and although he didn’t remember lying down on the couch his back was grateful he hadn’t fallen asleep in his chair.

Making enough noise to warn the other occupants of the flat that he was awake he stood up and stretched.

“Tea?” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

“You making this time?”

“He is.” Mycroft walked into the living room, his eyes taking in everything about the man in front of him. “How are you feeling?”

“Stupid.”

Mycroft frowned. John nodded towards the manila folder tucked under older man’s arm.

“Case notes?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Do sit down John.”

Sherlock joined them, three mugs of tea in his hands. He handed on to john, using his newly free hand to gently guide him into an armchair before handing a second mug to Mycroft and settling into his own chair.

“So?” The blond doctor looked at the brothers, waiting.

“So Mary officially died in a car accident. I thought that would be easier for you to deal with when you go back to the surgery.” Sitting on the couch, Mycroft laid the folder across his knees. “For appearance sake, and to keep the paperwork as official as possible we had Dr Hooper perform a post-mortem.”

“Put your tea down John.” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes concerned.

“What – why?”

Sherlock reached across and retrieved the mug from John’s lax fingers, then nodded to his brother.

“John,” Mycroft waited until John had turned to look at him. “Mary wasn’t pregnant.”

“Not…” His forehead wrinkled in confusion John looked from one brother to the other.

“We’ll never know for sure how she faked the test, although it seems likely that she took another expectant mum’s urine sample and passed it off as her own.”

“I don’t understand, why would she do that?”

“I think she was just trying to hold onto you.” Sherlock explained. “Maybe she thought that once you were married…”

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Eventually I would have noticed her lack of…of…”

“Whatever her thoughts, we’ll never know now.” Ever the voice of reason Mycroft interrupted before John could lose control of his emotions and turned the subject away from babies. “We also took fingerprints and had them checked against an international database.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose John sighed.

“John, she wasn’t Mary Morstan, she was Sebastienne Marella Moran. Her father was known to you I believe – Colonel Sebastian Moran. Her mother was Marella Mariton, a leading light of the GIA, they are...”

“Algerian insurgents, yes Mycroft, I’m well aware of who they are.”

“Oh course John. Anyway, that would explain her choice of name…”

“And her abilities as a sniper.” Sherlock added.

John nodded in agreement, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I never really knew her, did I?”

“John…”

“No Sherlock, not now. Now I just need to be on my own.”

The Holmes brothers watched as he left the room,

xXx

The funeral was held a week later. The practice was closed for the morning as Mary’s friends and colleagues turned out to pay their respects and to support John and the senior partner authorised two weeks compassionate leave for the grieving doctor.

Two days later Sherlock and Greg helped John remove his belongings from the house in Islington, while Anthea removed and disposed of anything belonging to Mary.

John had quietly agreed that yes, Anthea could go through everything (including that damned memory box) in case there was anything Mycroft could use to strengthen his case against Magnussen, and then he simply went back to packing his things.

Greg had been a rock, offering to put John up at his flat if Baker Street was too much to deal with at the moment, and when his offer was refused he shrugged and said he’d be there for John, anytime, if he needed to talk, or just wanted a drinking buddy, and that he was not to be put off by the time of day or night.

And then suddenly it was all over. John was back in his old room in Baker Street, Greg was back at Scotland Yard, and the only people still discussing Sebastienne Marella Moran were the security services.

xXx

It took five days.

Sherlock had counted them. He had also counted the amount of times John left his bedroom in the middle of the night to walk down the stairs, stop briefly outside his room, and then return to the upstairs bedroom. It happened two or three times a night. And every time it happened he hoped, fervently, that John would knock on his door and let him help, but every time it was the same – footsteps, a pause, and then a retreat.

Until tonight.

The footsteps paused for the second time, and then there was a light tapping on his door.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, only just loud enough to be heard. “Can I…”

Sherlock opened the door. “What do you need?”

“I… I don’t know.” John frowned. Can I come in?”

Silently Sherlock stepped back, gesturing for John to enter.

On silent feet John crossed to what used to be ‘his’ side of the bed and stood looking down at the rumpled sheets. He frowned.

“You still keep to your side of the bed.”

“I’m still hoping you will take your side again.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

A small smile crept onto Sherlock’s face. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.” He walked round and climbed back into bed, flipping the cover’s down on John’s side. “Get in,” he encouraged softly. “If only for the company.”

For a long moment John stood looking down at him, and then with a small nod he climbed into the bed, stretching out on his back and staring at the ceiling.

“Do you want to talk?”

John shook his head. “Not about Mary.” He clarified.

“About anything else?”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock waited. He knew John would open up eventually, and fortunately he didn’t have to wait long.

“I meant it you know, in that bloody tube car.” Drawing in a deep breath, John let it out slowly. “I never stopped loving you.”

“I’m glad.”

Rolling on to his side John looked Sherlock in the eye.

“Am I wrong to want you now, so soon after…”

“Does it feel wrong?”

John shook his head. “Being with Mary never felt right, but I was content to settle for second best.” He admitted. “I always wondered if I was being unfair to her.”

“And now?”

“I think, in her own warped, twisted way, she cared for me, but she cared more for her life and freedom and her…” John’s face screwed up. “…her bloody ideals, righteous killing or whatever – that meant more to her. When faced with having to kill me she was willing to do it to save her own skin.”

“And you saved my life.”

A small huff, not quite a laugh, emanated from John’s lips.

“And I said I didn’t want to talk about her – and I don’t, I really don’t.” Reaching out his hand he stroked Sherlock’s face. “I want – need – to talk about us. Where do we go from here?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Will you stop answering my questions with questions you bloody git? It’s not helpful!”

“Then let me tell you what I want and let’s see if we both want the same thing hmm? I want to go back to what we had before… before my faked suicide, I want to hold you the way I used to hold you, I want the ghost of Mary Morstan never to get between us again. I want _you_!”

 

“Well thank fuck for that!” Reaching out John pulled the younger man into his arms. “I’ve missed you, missed this, so very much!”

Silencing him with his lips Sherlock moved closer, his arms sliding around John’s waist, his hands slipping down to push at the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms. John’s hips jerked against him and he pulled them closer, wantonly rolling against him.

“Jesus Sherlock, you wouldn’t believe how many times I dreamed this would happen, how many nights while you were… were away, that I reached out for you only to find empty space.”

“I’m here now John, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go!”

Any more conversation was swallowed as their mouths met and their bodies ground together, frantic hands scrabbled at clothing as the urge to press flesh against naked flesh became almost unbearable.

Sliding a hand between their bodies Sherlock took both their heated, swollen cocks in his hand and picked up a bruising pace; chasing their mutual orgasms to completion with the same single-mindedness that he applied to everything he loved. And John was like putty in his hands; head flung back, eyes closed, his body moving to Sherlock’s command until with a cry he spilled his seed into Sherlock’s hand followed closely by the man himself.

In the aftermath John wiped them both clean with his t-shirt and then curled into Sherlock’s body, his head resting on the younger man’s chest, listening to his heartbeat as it gradually returned to normal.

“Is it all over now?” He asked, not moving from his comfortable spot in Sherlock’s arms.

“Over?” Sherlock mused. “No John, this is just the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for sticking with this story - it took far longer than I expected it too.  
> I would promise not to start another multi-chapter story when I already have others on the go....but I would hate to lie to you :P


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